


Fly Me to the Moon

by seera_erizabesu



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Daily Prophet, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Post Hogwarts AU, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, Quidditch, Quidditch Player Harry Potter, Quidditch World Cup, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smut, Writer Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 04:54:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9703142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seera_erizabesu/pseuds/seera_erizabesu
Summary: It’s been four years since the war ended. Draco Malfoy works as an investigative journalist for the Daily Prophet, his only connection to wizarding London. When his coworker is injured, Draco takes his place alongside the English National team, reporting on their bid in the Quidditch World Cup.All at once, Draco is thrown back into a wizarding community that’s not entirely ready to have him back. The undisguised hatred of team captain Harry Potter doesn’t help. Now Draco must balance the dislike of his peers, a heavy workload, and the newly reignited rivalry between himself and his childhood rival. What could go wrong?





	1. Chapter 1

Draco ducked his head with practiced ease as the owl barreled across the room. It screeched and turned, barely missing the top of a coat rack. The tawny’s loud presence hardly interrupted the chaotic pace of the office. Dozens of wizards and witches sprawled out in the open space, the keys of typewriters whistling away without being touched and the scratch of quills a constant backdrop to the scene.

 

An old wizard in navy velvet robes stepped out of the only enclosed office, walking to stand underneath the large “Daily Prophet” sign in the center of the room. The owl landed on his arm, releasing a large scroll of parchment into the man’s waiting hand. Gendry Pacard tossed a few knuts up in the air, and the owl caught them between its talons with ease mid-flight.  

 

Taking only a moment to glance at the delivery, Pacard placed his wand to his neck, and a deep echoing voice rang out,

 

“Gather round, writers.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

Pacard had been the editor of the Daily Prophet since the end of the war four years ago. The board had a revelation of sorts and had brought on a new senior staff to revamp the organization and purge itself of the questionable standards it had held itself to during the height of Voldemort’s power. Only a handful of writers remained who had worked through the war, and most of the staff had grown to know each other, bonding in the post-war chaos.

 

Pacard had come straight from Ireland. His sing-song Cork accent enchanted rooms, and his intellect was obvious. The eccentric wizard was well admired among his staff.

 

When the few dozen writers and editors of the Daily Prophet had gathered in the open space before the older man, Pacard grinned slyly,

 

“Keeping busy ladies and gents? I sure hope so, as I can officially report that readership is up 10% for the quarter, and we want to keep those numbers up.”

 

Smiles spread through the gathered crowd. For most of the staff, that meant a few extra galleons in the pocket for the next cheque.

 

Without hesitation, the senior editor jumped to business. The mid-week meetings served as a check in period for the departments; go over larger pieces, long term projects, breaking news, and upcoming quotas. Draco zoned out for most of this. Working on long think pieces, Draco hardly published more than ten stories a year. His investigative journalism took a good amount of time, and surprisingly enough, he held close ties within the Ministry which he used for insider information. A few other writers worked on long-term pieces like Draco, and they sat in a small annex disconnected from the hustle and noise of the main writer’s floor.

 

Draco liked it this way. His coworkers were good people for the most part, but even four years after the battle at Hogwarts, there were still people uncomfortable with his presence. They unconsciously stepped away from him as he entered a room and danced around conversations with him, only bringing up the safest of topics. The handful of writers he knew better he considered close friends. They trusted him as well as he could hope, and they gave him a shoulder to lean on whenever Witch Weekly decided to do another scathing Malfoy article.

 

* * *

 

 

Draco’s attention was diverted back to the meeting as Pacard turned his gaze to the small ragtag team of Draco’s.

 

“Ah yes, and the best for last, my investigative team. How are we all this fine day?”

 

Laurel Jacobs jumped into a brief explanation of her latest findings: Illegal transportation of magical plants and herbs across the border. Quite enthralling, really, if Draco did say so himself. Pacard nodded in approval and shot her a warm smile before turning to the next member of the team.

 

Jules Ransic, Nicholas Sheradon, and Angie Drenn all gave Pacard a once over as Draco listened patiently.

 

Pacard finally turned his way, and Draco opened his mouth to jump into his newest findings on the brewing and distribution of illegal potions when Pacard interrupted.

 

“Now Draco, before you get started I must apologize. I know you have been working this lead for a few weeks now,”

 

The dumbfounded look on Draco’s face must have translated to Pacard, as he continued, “Tanner is in hospital. Splinched himself something awful yesterday evening. He’ll be in Mungo’s for the next two weeks at least. Did a real number on himself.”

 

“And, sir, how does this pertain to me?”

 

“Your taking over the sports column until further notice.”

 

Draco blanched at the words coming out of the editor's mouth.

 

"You can't be bloody serious? Anyone could write that tripe!"

 

The older man's face crumpled into a look of frustration, "Draco, don't be so brash. Your assignment, as important as it is to you, has no serious end date in sight. Putting it off for a few weeks will not hinder you much. Your team is the only one without articles being pushed out multiple times per week. On top of that, you're the only long term writer I have with experience in Quidditch,"

 

Draco interrupted, "I would hardly consider a half-formed Hogwarts Quidditch career experience,"

 

"But you follow the sport, no?"

 

"I mean yes, but sir, this is hardly fair. Half of the wizarding world follows quidditch. What did I do to deserve this sort of punishment?"

 

Draco glanced around, to where the few remaining writers were staring at him with curiosity. Draco usually kept to himself, and this could be considered his only outburst ever in their presence.

 

"Oh Draco, now you've experienced a lot of what this world can throw at you. If you consider this punishment, I would take a good look back at your life and maybe reconsider. Now, you'll do a great job covering the cup, and if you consider this such "tripe," it will be a vacation of sorts, will it not?"

 

Draco's mouth set in the characteristic scowl that he had worked so hard to wipe from his face over the years. The man had a knack for sounding like Albus Dumbledore when he was chiding him.

 

“I don’t need a vacation”, Draco muttered under his breath as he stormed back to his desk in the back of the office.

 

* * *

 

Draco was restless the remainder of the day. It was only the beginning of the week, and in a few short days he would be shipped off to Northern England with a bunch of former Gryffindors and professional chavs. He loved Quidditch, but he had never felt at home in the culture surrounding it. With his thin frame and cold demeanor, he had always felt like an outsider among his loud, chummy teammates.

 

Times change, but he had always avoided attending games and gathering at wizard pubs to listen to matches. The people that showed up were always the ones who hated the Malfoys the most. The ones most likely to throw a butterbeer in his face and remind him that he should probably be rotting in Azkaban alongside his father. Maybe trip him up the stands on his way to his row and ask him, as he's making his way to his feet, why he's not sitting in the top box.

 

"Is it because Daddy isn't mates with the Minister, or can you just not afford it, Malfoy?"

 

A few encounters like that and Draco had taken to listening to matches from his flat. They even made these little model sets now. Synced to the radio and reenacted everything happening on the pitch. Quite remarkable really, even for wizarding technology. If only the model snitch wasn't the size of a pea, it would be a bit easier on the eyes.

 

Draco spent the next hour or so pondering his fate, and It was with little more than a few paragraphs of type finished that Draco called it a day and quickly packed his bags.

 

Within minutes of leaving his desk, he had stepped into the warm embrace of the Prophet fire and was stepping into the living room of his small London flat.

 

* * *

 

The next two days passed in relative peace. Draco’s nerves were sneaking up on him, causing him to flinch at every slammed door and twitch in anticipation every time someone looked his way. His progress in his research continued to stagnate as his mind wound in every direction. Nevertheless, he kept his eyes to his books and his typewriter, hoping his mental block would pass.

 

As Friday approached, a small barn owl landed hurriedly on Draco’s desk, tipping over a pot of ink and splattering it across the clean roll of parchment he has been laying out.

 

Recognizing the sodding creature and sighing with acceptance, he plucked the note from the bird’s wrist and shooed it away. The light, elegant script said simply:

 

_“You need to get out more. I’ll be there at 8.”_

 

A small smile creeped onto Draco’s face despite his foul mood. Pansy Parkinson had been his closest friend for years. Once she stopped trying to date him and he got over his ego, they realized they got along quite well.

 

She was a wildly posh figure in both wizarding and muggle London, and she always had something in her social calendar. They rarely made plans as much as he got a last minute owl telling him what to wear and when to be ready. She’d taken him to whiskey bars, jazz clubs, and even once a muggle film showing.

 

He pulled the pocket watch out of his breast pocket and glanced at the time. It was barely 3:30, but as he glanced around the office, he saw that it was sparsely populated. Draco figured he would get little more done for the day, and began to pack up his things. The weather was nice, and other than packing, Draco had hours before he would be expecting Pansy in his fire, so he set off on foot.

 

* * *

 

The walk was less than three miles through muggle London, although shorter if he crossed through Diagon Alley. His walk bypassed a charming bakery, unnumbered coffee shops, and a cart that made the only acceptable tea for miles.

 

Draco’s wallet was stuffed full of small notes as well as a large pouch for coins, and he carefully picked through, feeling for the telltale ridged edges of pound coins that differentiated them from wizarding money. He had tried to pay for a coffee with sickles in one of the first weeks in his new neighborhood, and it has required an awful lot of quick thinking and the put-upon fake accent of a confused foreigner to weasel his way out of the situation.

 

It took him a good 2 years before he tried going back to that shop.

 

Now he had a muggle banking account and all. He was as fully immersed in the muggle world as wizarding, and there was some comfort in it, if he told himself the truth. He pondered this thought as he weaved his way through the heavy traffic of London’s West End. The blasted tourist season never ended here, and the American muggles were all quite loud.

 

He shrugged his shoulders and wound quickly towards the stand, where an older man Frederick handed him a steaming cup of black tea in exchange for a few coins.

 

Draco hummed to himself and enjoyed the foggy warmth of the overcast sky. The traffic thinned and tourist groups dwindled slightly as he stepped of the main streets and into a slightly more residential part of the neighborhood. With his light stroll, Draco had made it back to his flat before five. He climbed the thin, twisting staircase to the fifth floor, and walked down the narrow hall to his door. A black painted door with a large brass “22” hung in the center greeted him.

 

Draco glanced around for onlookers, and not even bothering to take out his wand, whispered a hurried “alohamora” under his breath and stepped inside.

 

The place was just as he had left it, save for a large paper sitting on the windowsill, waiting to be read. Draco knew he could grab as many free prophets as he wanted from the office, but he liked the routine of coming home to a freshly delivered copy.

 

He closed the door, kicked off his shoes, and leaned against the sill, ready to read the articles he had not yet seen. Draco felt a flare of anger rush through his system and a flush creep into his face as he looked down at the front page, above the fold.

 

* * *

 

A grinning Harry Potter looked up at him, a twinkle in his eye and covered in mud. Despite his hair being caked in the substance, it still managed to stick out every which way, and and his smile still held the slight crooked charm that Witch Weekly loved to rave about.

 

_“Fans Gather as Potter Hopes to Bring Team to 1st Career Cup Appearance”_

 

Glancing back at the photo, Draco saw that Potter was being hoisted up on the shoulders of his teammates, a slightly crushed snitch held in his grasp. The large pitch of the Spanish national team could be seen in the background. The British national team had defeated the Spanish to proceed to the semifinals in a close game the weekend prior.

 

In the photo, the silent figures could be seen whooping and jumping around, looking nothing short of ecstatic for the coming match. Draco could even see the side of Oliver Wood’s face, newly elevated to the position of first keeper, looking giddy after one of his first appearances alongside the national team.

 

Draco skimmed his eyes down the page, opening the paper at the fold to read the tightly packed type of the article:

 

> _“For the first time in only four short years, team captain and first seeker Harry James Potter will lead the British National Team to an appearance in the World Cup Semi-Finals. Potter and his teammates defeated the explosive Spanish team, lead by captain Ponello, who had been hoping to overcome their poor luck since their last world cup appearance in 1809._
> 
> _This will be England’s first spot in the semifinals since 1916, where they were defeated by Burkina Faso._
> 
> _The chance at the cup is being seen as an exciting time for England, as the Department of Magical Games and Sports unanimously decided to forgo England’s bid in the tournament in the summer of 1998 following the devastating battle at wizarding school Hogwarts, where many citizens lost their lives or the lives of loved ones._
> 
> _Potter was voted team captain last year, after his third year of practicing with the team. It has been unheard of in England’s team history to vote a captain that has yet to see the pitch of the cup finals._
> 
> _Potter however, has an impressive quidditch record in his few years in the professional circuit. He has called Puddlemere United home for the past three years, and has a British and Irish Quidditch League Championship under his belt._
> 
> _The Gambling booths are giving England a good shot at 4-1 odds as they go up against currently undefeated Germany._
> 
> _“We have a strong team this time around. I think the team’s had a real chance to grow and become a unified group of flyers. We’re not doing this for us, we’re doing this for England.” spoke Oliver Lambic, beater and veteran player. This will be Lambic’s 4th season flying for England and 18th season with the Chudley Cannons._
> 
> _By turning to page 6 in this issue, readers will find a full anticipated team roster as well as a layout of the many broom models expected to make an appearance at the match. Tune into National Quidditch Radio at 4 pm this coming Saturday to hear the official broadcast.”_
> 
>  

Draco set the paper down. He knew full well that Potter was the golden child of the quidditch world as much as he had been the golden child of Dumbledore. The man might be an even bigger star now than he had been after defeating Voldemort for good.

 

He looked nearly the same as when he was younger, save for a few inches, a few more pounds of muscle, and a wardrobe that fit. The glasses he wore were still the comically round shape as always, and his hair was untamed and wild. Draco could recount all of this because, every damned time that he made his way into wizarding London, Potter’s face practically screamed out at him from every passed newspaper stall and quidditch shop.

 

Somehow, despite Draco’s full knowledge of the English team’s line up, he hadn’t considered that he’d have to interact with Potter this coming weekend.

 

He would be staying at the same lodge as the players, interviewing them before and after the match, and following them on the press circuit with the other reporters. His badge and official orders said so.

 

Draco hadn’t spoken to Potter in the last four years. Not that they had spoken much before that. He had seen Potter once across a pub, and when they made eye contact Potter had scowled and made to leave. Before the chosen one had a second to moved though, Draco had fled the booth, pint glass still in hand, and apparated back to his flat.

 

Confrontation made Draco nervous. The idea of being mocked or attacked or god forbid warmly welcomed by Potter made him nauseous. The small bit of trouble that the weekend was had suddenly transformed itself into Draco’s worst nightmare.

 

* * *

 

Draco was somewhere between seething with anger and breaking down with anxiety when he grabbed the nearest quill to owl Pacard and tell him he couldn’t go to the match. He was rummaging through his desk for a piece of scrap parchment when the fire whirled up and a figure stepped out gracefully.

 

Pansy Parkinson stood before him in all of her glory, a fitted black dress and lethal looking shoes cladding her slim frame.

 

Draco started and dropped the quill, where it rolled across the floor.

 

“What in god’s name are you doing here?” he demanded with a snarl, nearly tripping in his haste to grab the fleeing instrument.

 

“Now Draco, I know that I’m a bit early, but you look as if someone’s just killed your childhood pet.”

 

Draco frowned, “Ugh, I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

“Talk. Now.” she commanded as she sat down fluidly in the closest chair, “It’s only six. We have ages.”

 

“My boss. Work. Harry fucking Potter. Everything’s rubbish and I wish I could transform myself into a toadstool.”

 

“Now that’s a bit dramatic, dear. Use some more words so I can figure out what you’re trying to say.”

 

Draco sighed and fell back into the waiting arms of the couch. “I have to go up north to cover the semifinals of the cup.”

 

“Is that is, Draco? Why is that so bad?”

 

Draco looked insulted. “First of all. That is not my job. In case you remember I don’t write this sort of drivel. Secondly, I frankly don’t want to deal with being a Malfoy in public at the moment. Finally, the golden child will be there and I don’t want any part in the cult like lauding of him.”

 

“Hmm,” Pansy murmured, “I’m sure it won’t be that bad, Draco. It’s been four years. You don’t give people enough credit. They’re not all bad. My father was implicated in the trials too, and I’m really doing alright.”

 

“But you’re not a Malfoy. People don’t care nearly as much.” Draco sneered back at her.

 

Pansy sneered right back, “You know that look doesn’t work on me. I’ve known you since before you could walk.”

 

Draco sighed and crossed his arms, leaning back even further into the leather, hoping it would swallow him up, “I just don’t want to deal with it, Pansy,” he admitted, “I’m finally fully settled. The death threats have stopped, and my flat is fully warded. I love my job and even have a few friends other than you. I don’t want to upset the balance. I don’t want to risk anymore _“Murderer Malfoy makes a Reappearance”_ or _“Draco Malfoy, Still a Death Eater?”_ articles in the tabloids. I just can’t do it again.”

 

For the first time in so many minutes, a look of pure sympathy washed over the face of Pansy Parkinson. She leaned over, gave him a quick hug and got to her feet. “You know what this means, Draco?”

 

“Ugh, what?”

 

“It’s good I got here early. That’s what. I have more than sufficient time to get you thoroughly pissed before you leave in the morning.”

 

“I need to pack.”

 

“Fine. You have twenty minutes. Use them wisely.”

 

* * *

 

In exactly twenty minutes, Pansy looped her arm through Draco’s and turned on the spot. Their cloaks whirled around them, hair blew, and Draco’s stomach felt as if it was doing flips inside of him. The squeezing sensation grabbed him, and suddenly their surroundings vanished. The pair reappeared in a dark a nondescript alleyway.

 

Draco looked over at Pansy expectantly, waiting for her to clarify where they were.

 

“South Bank. We’re going to a new cocktail bar Yvonne’s. I fancied something a bit more elegant than last weekend.”

 

Draco thought bar to the weekend prior, when they had ended the night throwing back shots with a muggle Bridal party visiting from the Midlands. Pansy started out of the alley, motioning for Draco to follow suit. The walked down the sparsely populated side street, and Draco could just make out the top of the London Eye peeking out over the rooftops.

 

“Please don’t tell me we’ll be spending our night with tourists and university students, Pansy.”

 

She looked insulted, “Of course not. Would I do that to you?”

 

A few quick turns and Pansy lead him to a heavy wooden door illuminated by a small sign made of marquee lights. There were no windows as far as Draco’s eye could see, and the side street was yet to be full of the city’s nightlife. As they stepped inside, they were met with the sound of swing jazz and the sights of young, unabashedly hip couples enjoying the music.

 

The walls were filled with art and photographs, and the lighting was dim. High top tables scattered through the open space, and drinks were served out of an array of oddly shaped, colorful glasses that looked as if they were sourced from the nearest charity shop. The patrons were dressed in loud, interesting clothing, and Draco felt a little underdressed in his grey sweater and slacks.

 

“Ah, perfect” Pansy said, floating over to the nearest stool and the bar and taking a seat.

 

Pansy turned her attention to the bartender, a well dressed man with a light beard and a shock of red hair. “Whiskey sour for me, Gin & Tonic for him.” she said, motioning towards Draco.

 

She picked up a menu and perused the appetizers, calling the bartender back with her order.

 

“Now isn’t this place cozy?” she asked Draco.

 

“I guess you could call it that.” he replied, knowing full well that he was years behind wizarding trends and even further behind muggle ones.

 

“Well, doesn’t quite matter what you think. They serve alcohol and play music, which seems like a perfect remedy to the day you’re having. Now sit back and enjoy your drink. I must tell you all about work.”

 

Draco took Pansy at her word and sat back in his seat, letting her rattle away about her design work and her forays into both the wizarding and muggle art worlds. She described the gallery space her friend was opening up, the newest trends in the market, and her ideas for large events she had been hired out to plan.

 

It was all quite interesting, if a bit repetitive, and Draco had an endless amount of respect for Pansy’s ambition. It was thanks to her that his apartment was decorated, he had a full set of muggle clothes, and that he knew most of his small social circle. He owed her for pulling him out of his slump following the war and getting him back on his feet.

 

A rush of affection for his closest friend rushed through Draco as he sipped on what was either his third or fourth drink of the night. The clock on the wall said 8:0, and Draco was hoping Pansy wouldn’t keep him out too late. Despite her efforts, he was still in a rather sour mood, anxious about the upcoming weekend and mad at himself for being so anxious to begin with.

 

As the drinks washed over him and Pansy dragged him out of Yvonne’s to a louder pub down the street, his nerves did let up a bit. He was swaying and singing along with a muggle tune he was surprised he knew the words to, and for the first time in days quidditch wasn’t on his mind.

 

When the clock hit two in the morning, Pansy grabbed him by the wrist and led him out of the pub. She was fairly steady on her feet, but Draco swayed side to side as he walked, the buildings blurring in his eyes. He saw her grab a small vial of sobering potion from her purse and shoot it down her throat, shuddering as it went down.

 

The cold feeling of becoming suddenly sober, the alcohol disappearing from your blood stream was never a pleasant one, and wizards almost always avoided taking these potions unless they needed to travel. The now fiercely alert Pansy grabbed Draco once again, turning on the spot and bringing the swaying man back to his flat.


	2. Chapter 2

Draco was awoken by a delicate paper crane pecking him repeatedly in the ear, becoming more aggressive the longer he ignored it.

 

“Damn Pansy and her creative charms.” Draco croaked, flicking the paper creature away and rolling over.

 

His throat was dry and his head ached endlessly. The clock on his bedside table read 6:30 am. Draco had to catch his portkey at 7:30 to be to team headquarters for pre-match interviews.

 

Stumbling out of bed, Draco realized he had never changed out of his clothing from the night before. He groaned again and squinted in the morning light, traipsing his way down the hall to take a shower. As the water heated up, Draco poured through his cupboard, hoping that he would find an unused hangover potion somewhere amongst the many vials of medicinal potions he kept in stock.

 

“Bollocks” Draco swore under his breath when he came out empty handed. 

 

He flicked his wand in the direction of the kitchen, where he could hear the coffee pot switch on. Hopefully the combination of hot water and caffeine would be enough to get him through the journey.

 

* * *

 

By 7:00, a very exhausted Draco was fully dressed in charcoal grey press robes and a traveling cloak. He head was pounding in his ears, and his vision swam before him, but at the very least he looked put together. He picked up his leather bag, grabbed his typewriter case from the desk, and turned on the spot.

 

Draco appeared in a sparsely populated warehouse in South London. He recognized a few ministry officials from the Department of Magical Games and Sports gathered together amongst the groups of traveling fans. He made eye contact with one, but quickly looked away as a frown passed over the witch’s face.

 

This portkey stop was one of dozens set up all over London proper to bring fans and officials up North for the game. Unlike the final world cup game, and unlike Draco, most fans did not plan on spending the night at the match site, and therefore stood around the space devoid of luggage. People saved their time and money for the final the coming weekend.

 

He stood around awkwardly off to the side of the mass of people, watching other groups appear throughout the warehouse as the travel time approached. By 7:25 there were a few dozen wizards and witches in the open space, gathered around the handful of large oil barrels that had been transformed into portkeys for the event. They were dressed ostentatiously, bright burgundy apparel, flags adorned with golden dragons waving without a gust of wind. Many had omnioculars draped around their necks, a quidditch fan’s necessity in recent years.

 

Draco had so far successfully avoided making small talk with anyone in the warehouse, although he recognized a handful of wizards who had been Hufflepuffs a few years below him at Hogwarts. One was named Henry, but he didn’t remember anything else. They were too young to have fought in the battle, but old enough to know him.

 

As the clock ticked closer to 7:30, Draco joined the group and placed his pale hand onto one of the grimy barrels. A minute or so later, the squeezing sensation so similar to apparition took hold of his body, and he spun head over heels into the darkness. Draco and the rest of the large group were dumped by the portkey into a large field a mile or so from the match site. They all scattered to the ground rather dramatically, and Draco nearly retched as he got to his feet. If anything could make a hungover person feel worse, it was travel by portkey.

 

The people around Draco slowly made their way to standing, looking disoriented and confused.

 

A cheerful looking man poked his head out of a small tent a few yards away.

 

“Welcome to the Quidditch World Cup semifinals” Lee Jordan boomed from the entrance, “Any officials or press, please make your way to me and I will assist you in catching up on programming for the day. Everyone else, you can see the bloody pitch, so head on over that way.”

 

Draco’s old classmate grinned, looking as if he was having the time of his life. As Jordan stepped out of the tent, Draco could see the pale blue robes of the Department of Magical Games and Sports officials swishing around his frame. The light color complemented his dark features, and the man seem to have grown into his gangly frame and wide smile over the years, leaving behind an attractive man. 

 

The spattering of Ministry members made their way toward the small tent, and Draco trailed behind sullenly, not looking forward to the day ahead. Lee greeted each witch and wizard by name, shaking their hands and clapping them on the back as they entered the structure.

 

“Ah, Hopper, good to see you mate. How did those American folks treat ya?”

 

“Good trip, Sasha? You’re dealing with safety warding today so I here.”

 

“Bloody hell, is that Earl Richardson I see? Now who took the load off you?”

 

The genuinely warm welcomes continued until he was left standing at the feet of Lee Jordan, former Gryffindor and undeniable foe at Hogwarts. Draco could vividly remember Jordan’s ecstatic cheering in the announcer’s booth any time a bludger zoomed near or he failed to catch a snitch.

 

The two men made eye contact and Lee seemed to hold back momentarily, but eventually a small smile crossed his lips,

 

“Draco Malfoy? What in Merlin’s beard are you doing here?”

 

The question was genuine, with no animosity that Draco could hear,

 

“Uhh, hello Jordan. Tanner is in Mungos. I’ve been handed the wonderful task of covering the next few matches on the press junket.”

 

Lee either didn’t hear or chose to ignore the undertones of sarcasm in Draco’s statement, as he leaned forward, clapped Draco on the back stiffly, and gave him another small smile.

 

“Well, good to have you here, Malfoy. Tanner is a complete twat, and if you’re any better than him my life will be monumentally easier. Promise me you won’t try to sneak into the official’s offices or up-skirt any performers, now?”

 

Draco nodded is exasperation, and continued into the magically-enlarged tent without another word. His relatively warm greeting was unanticipated but not unwelcome, but Draco had low expectations that this would continue.  

 

The tent was huge and bustling, the security setup and check in point for any official at the games. People in a smattering of light blue robes and the tell tale deep plum of aurors bustled about, ducking flying notes and owls as they moved about smoothly. It was organized chaos if Draco had ever seen it.

 

A large gleaming sign in the entryway was covered with arrows pointing in all directions, and after a few moments spent digesting the information, Draco started off in the direction of press check in.

 

* * *

 

It took Draco over two hours to get properly checked in and badged up in the press booth.

 

The event was being highly covered, and the German wizarding press was nothing short of unbearable. Loud and uncooperative, they had been arguing on and off all morning with officials about their security clearance. Their harsh accents were doing little to help Draco’s headache, and he looked over the large group in annoyance as he stood to the side.

 

A heavyset wizard in Ministry robes was just finishing weighing his wand, the last step before he could get out of the stuffy, loud environment.

 

Draco had successfully avoided all but completely necessary human interaction, yet he was still in a foul mood. Ready to sleep off the hangover for the next few hours so that he could be better prepared for the match, he tapped his foot in impatience as he waited.

 

What seemed like hours later but could not have been more than a few minutes, the witch placed the wand back in front of him carefully.

 

“You’re ready to go, Mr. Malfoy.” she said in a thick Scottish accent, “The inn is a few minutes walk down the road if you want to situate yourself before the match starts.”

 

Draco nodded tightly and quickly made his way for the exit.

 

A loud voice called from behind him,

 

“Is that a fucking Malfoy I see here? Or is it a weasel? It’s always been so hard to tell the difference.”

 

Cormac Mclaggen stood behind Draco, a hand placed jauntily on his hip and a scowl of dislike plastered across his chiseled face. He wore plum robes of an auror, a position Draco was frankly shocked the hot-headed wizard was permitted to hold.

 

Draco ignored the jab and continued to walk towards the entrance flap of the tent. 

 

Suddenly a sharp tug came from around his neck as Mclaggen grabbed him by the back of the robes and yanked roughly. Draco stumbled backwards, almost losing his footing entirely.

 

“You have anything to say, Malfoy?” he sneered, hand placed delicately above his wand pocket.

 

Draco sneered, “Not to you, Mclaggen. Now if you excuse me, I have things to do.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure you do, weasel. Who’s dime are you here on now that Daddy’s gone by the wayside? I can’t believe they even let death eater scum like you into the tent.”

 

A few people’s eyes had trailed toward the pair, and Mclaggen did little to quiet his voice.

 

“Who do you think you are? Prancing in here with your little reporter’s robes, pretending things have changed and you’re not the same Slytherin scum you were four years ago.”

 

A dozen or so eyes were trained on Draco at this point. No one was stepping in to defend him, but no one was egging Mclaggen on either. The silence that followed Mclaggen’s last statement hung in the air awkwardly. Draco’s head pounded, anger raging in his ears. His scowl deepened and he forcefully shoved Mclaggen’s arm from off the nape of his neck,

 

“Fuck off, Mclaggen. I’ve got work to do.”

 

Draco stormed out of the tent, ignoring the onlookers and grabbing his trunk. 

 

* * *

 

Draco seethed with anger for the entire walk to the inn. He should have been stupid to think that his time here wouldn’t be like any other journey into wizarding London he had made before.

 

Even if some people were willing to shake hands and make good, so many still hated him. They didn’t care that Draco had publicly denounced his father’s actions, publically apologized for his involvement, paid his reparations, and left the manor to live his own life outside of the wealth and influence of his family. There were a lot more Mclaggens out there.

 

Draco reached the beginning of a stone path down to the large country inn. At the end of it sat a an imposing tudor mansion complete with overflowing flower beds and a large English garden to the side. It was if someone had taken a quaint country home and enlarged it to four times its natural size.

 

Outside of the inn there were people bustling about, chatting and carrying suitcases inside. However, ministry officials and fans were staying at different locations across the area, so it was the quietest spot Draco would see all weekend. When Draco appeared at the front entrance, he saw a very old woman with a shockingly magenta set of robes sitting behind a large mahogany desk.  He handed her his badge wordlessly, and she rummaged around, producing an antiqued brass key hanging from a ribbon.

 

“5th floor, room 3. There are only a few rooms up there, so it should be nice and quiet for you, dear.”

 

Malfoy breathed a sigh of release and wandlessly hovered his luggage up the staircase in front of him.

 

As he passed each landing, he could hear the shouts of players and saw the telltale flashes of the burgundy English robes and the violet German robes through the hallways. He didn’t see a single member of the press on his long climb up the staircase. Draco guessed he was the only one taking a lie in.

 

They would all be out, interviewing prominent fans and hoping to catch an official in a moment of down time, fleshing out their writing and grabbing ahold of some quip no one else had. Draco should be out there with them, but his foul mindset would only lead to unusable interviews and aggravation on everyone’s part.

 

Glancing around the hallway, Draco’s eyes settled on the door labeled three at the end of the short hall. He slotted the key into the lock of the heavy oak door and stumbled into the dark room.

 

Draco’s headache lessened slightly with the welcome darkness, but he lit his wand with a soft “lumos” and hovered his bags in to rest at the foot of the bed. The room was small and cozy, perfectly fit for a single person. The bed was squished into the corner next to the window, laden with mismatched quilts and overstuffed pillows. A heavy wooden desk took up the other wall, a large pouf sitting in front of it in place of a chair. As per wizard custom, a roaring fire filled the grate in front of the bed, and a large jar of floo powder rested on the mantle. Despite the August warmth, the heat didn’t flow past the bounds of the fireplace.

 

Once he had quickly surveyed the space, Draco slammed the door and shed himself of his traveling cloak. He groaned and massaged his temple with the palms of his hand, scrunching his eyes closed with discomfort at the raging headache. 

 

Draco made his way into the lavatory, pulling open the medicine cupboard and rifling through the various vials and jars piled within. It took him a few short seconds to recognize the amber bottle the signified hangover potion and the onyx black of dreamless sleep sloshing around in another.

 

“Finally,” Draco muttered, downing the first potion in a single gulp and following it with the icy cold black mixture. Within seconds, he could feel his headache starting to dull, and a wave of exhaustion began to creep in at the edges of his vision. He made his way to the foot of the bed, kicking of his shoes as he walked.

 

Draco glanced at the large clock on the wall. It was only 10:15, and the match was not until 4:00. He had plenty of time for a quick revitalizing nap before he was required to be in the press box. 

 

* * *

 

Draco awoke with a start, tangling his limbs around the multitude of bed spreads and nearly falling out of bed. A wave of dysphoria washed over him as he tried to remember where he was. Hi memories crashed back over him all at once, and a thought rushed to te front of his mind:

 

_ What time was it? _

 

In the moment, Draco had forgotten to set an alarm, and he could have very well missed part of the match. He lit his wand and looked up at the wall clock.

 

3.40

 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. The match started at 4:00. He was supposed to be in the press box at 3:30. Draco quickly amassed his pile of badges and reporting materials, throwing his omnioculars around his neck and slipping on his shoes. With a crack, he apparated himself to the pitch gates, where fans were queuing to enter the stands. 

 

Without a backward glance or a thought for the stands, Draco started elbowing his way through the crowd. He held his badge over his head and yelled in his most authoritative voice,

 

“Coming through, coming through. I’m press, now come on, move a bit faster.”

 

The low drawl had its intended effect, and the tightly packed crowd parted like the red sea. He flashed his badge and entered the stands, weaving his way through the people towards the top boxes.

 

Press was situated just under the top box where Draco had watched his last World Cup match. The box was reserved for ministry higher ups, local celebrities, and the most influential of the magical community. Draco was now none of the above, but press was given preference for seats as their view of the match was essential to their jobs.

 

It took Draco nearly ten minutes, but he was able to squeeze himself up to the press box, which was entirely full save for one seat in the back corner. As he opened the door to the seating area, all eyes turned to face him.

 

“Oh, look who finally decided to show their face,” a hawk nosed, broad shouldered man muttered. 

 

Draco recognized the man as Claude Lemoire, a French wizard and long time writer for Quidditch Weekly. Draco didn’t know the man personally, but recognized his face, sprawled as it was across every article he published. For his writings, it seemed as if the man had an ego that could compete with Gilderoy Lockhart.

 

Draco’s smile turned into a grimace, and he weaved his way through the thicket of reporters as quickly as he could. He was jostled about by a few hard elbows, but no one else addressed him before he sat down.

 

A slight witch dressed in navy robes turned to look at him. “Don’t worry about Lemoire,” she said under her breath, “He’s always like that.”

 

“Lovely,” Draco sneered sarcastically

 

“Oh, don;t give me that,” she muttered back, “The man’s intimidated by you. Tanner’s a loon, and not a very good writer to top it off. Yeah he can churn out facts okay and knows his quidditch like the back of his hand, but no one would consider him a competent reporter. You on the other hand have a serious quill on you. He’s mad you’re here.”

 

Without another word or an introduction, the witch turned back around and focused in on the man who was walking out onto the pitch.

 

* * *

 

Beckley Quidd was an eccentric man, almost as boisterous and loud as his predecessor Ludo Bagman had been. He was dressed in Lemon yellow robes and seemed to float out onto the pitch rather than walk.

 

When he reached the center of the pitch, he raised his hand for quiet and placed his wand at the nape of his neck.

 

“Hello all!” a booming voice rained out over the crowd, “Welcome to 424th Quidditch World cup semi-finals. I am you announcer for this evening, Beckley Quidd, Head of Magical Games and Sports at the English Ministry of Magic.”

 

The man paused for a short bout of applause from the crowd.

 

“Thank you to the German national team for letting us play host to this game. We are excited to have you all here today. I have a few short announcements before our match can get underway, so let me dive on it.”

 

For the next few minutes, Quidd chattered on about safety procedures and concessions alike. By 4:10 he had reached the end of his speech and had motioned for the head officials to join him on the pitch.

 

Draco focused his omnioculars on the officials, who were releasing the snitch and unlatching the bludger from its bindings. The players were ushered out to join them, and at the blow of a whistle, they mounted their brooms and took to the skies in one fluid motion.

 

As the players hovered in mid air, floating in their positions and waiting for the second whistle to blow, Draco caught his first glance of Potter. The man sat on his broom, the newest firebolt model, floating about ten feet above the English goalposts. His fitted red kit was reminiscent of his days playing for Gryffindor, and he still wore his quidditch goggles all these years later to play.

 

He saw Potter smirk and yell something out to Oliver Wood, another familiar face hovering dozens of feet above the ground. Wood grinned back at Harry, looking giddy.

 

While a veteran quidditch player, this would be Wood’s first appearance in a World Cup match, as he had been a reserve player the last few years. Keeper Denison Frisby had suffer two fractured vertebrae in the previous match against Spain and announced his retirement on the spot, opening up the position to wood.

 

Draco ignored his desire to focus back in on Potter and try to decipher the words coming out of his mouth from so far away and instead zoomed back out to watch the entire match. The head official was lining up British chaser Emily Wormwood with German chaser Kurt Todt.

 

She blew her whistle and threw the quaffle up into the air with a much force as she could muster, and without a pause, the match had begun.

 

* * *

 

It was almost fifteen minutes into the match when the first goal was scored. Emily Wormwood swiftly maneuvered past beater Katrina Von to send the quaffle soaring through the left hoop. The crowd went wild and red sparks flew up from the scoreboard.

 

It was another twenty minutes later, with the scoreboard reading 40-70, Germany ahead, when the first few raindrops started to fall. It took a mere few seconds for the sky to open up in earnest, sending pelting rain down over players and fans alike.

 

Draco groaned, quickly moved to protect his parchment, which was covered with notes jotted down by his quick-quotes quill. A large sea of movement spread over the crowd as witches and wizards rushed to toss up quick warming and drying spells over their groups.

 

The the slight distraction that coursed over the players, Jack Hawksworth, brother of retired English player Avery Hawksworth, swooped down to score in the middle hoop. The English team regained a sense of focus, and play intensified yet again

 

* * *

 

It had been almost four hours, and the fans were starting to get restless. 

 

The play was intense, but through the heavy rain and gusty winds, it was hard to discern exactly what was happening on the pitch. Draco squinted his eyes and twirled a knob on his omnioculars, bringing the view back into focus.

 

The match was enthralling, made even more so by the dangerous conditions. As the first match Draco had seen since his self-disassociation with quidditch, it couldn’t have been more exciting. He ignored the wet seeping into his robes and the hair plastered to his face, obscuring his vision, focusing on the movements of each and every player.

 

The teams moved fluidly as one, making up for the rain with smooth play and risky moves. As Draco watched, he saw Potter yelling out to his team members. He hated to admit it, but from what he had seen of Potter thus far, the man was a quidditch prodigy.

 

He zoomed and moved with practiced ease, rushing across the pitch to search for the snitch while simultaneously directing his team through plays and formations. The English team looked more unified than Draco had ever seen it, and he knew that it was in large part to the leadership role his rival played on the team.

 

He could see it in the way that the other player’s instinctively glanced to him for instruction and grinned his way when their work resulted in a goal.

 

It made Draco sick. He wish it could have been anyone else. Fucking Potter was already famous, in the limelight for his entire life. Now the man was even more noteworthy, and now frankly, he deserved it.

 

It was easy to hate the boy who was famous for practically nothing, but it was harder to hate a man who was a celebrity of his own hard work and skills. If anything this thought made Draco grit his teeth and seethe at the idea of Harry Potter the most.

 

Taking a calming breath, Draco focused his eyes on Wormwood, who was weaving her way through the players, making her way towards the German goalposts. The scoreboard read 90-120, Germany ahead by a short margin.

 

As she was speeding across the pitch, Draco could see Potter yelling at the two remaining chasers, sending them after her like a bolt of lightning. Even from here, Draco could see the glint in Potter’s eyes. The man had a plan, and he knew it was going to work.

 

As Hawksworth and Sean Killroy closed in on Woodsworth, the three suddenly formed a closely packed formation. As the German beaters grew closer, one raising their bat in preparation, Hawksworth and Killroy suddenly split from either side of Woodworth.

 

Falling into a deep dive, the two players raced toward the beaters below, dark spurts of red and blue sparks flowing out the ends of their brooms. The crowd had started to pick up, recognizing the play.

 

The two German beaters were thrown off their brooms by the impact with Hawksworth and Killroy, who caught themselves and redirected back towards Wormwood. The confusion of the German team was palpable, leaving the English chasers open to speed down the pitch.

 

Woodsworth passed the quaffle to Hawksworth in quick fashion, who immediately kicked the ball over the Killroy, who grabbed the ball with both hands, leaning up on his broom and throwing the quaffle overhead with as much might as he could muster.

 

The quaffle flew fast and far, spinning through the left hoop without a problem.

 

“That’s it Ladies and Gentlemen. The English are back,” Beckley Quidd yelled at the top of his lungs, seemingly forgetting the amplifying charm he had placed on himself.

 

“The Rowntree Counter, last seen in the 1994 World Cup quarter finals executed by now retired players Vosper, Hawksworth, and Filtney. What a play, what a play!”

 

As the crowd continued to cheer with enthusiasm, Draco was distracted by a movement out of the corner of his eye. He swiveled his head to see Potter diving at top speed toward the ground at the base of the England goal posts. It seemed as if no one had noticed the seeker’s movement, but Draco gasped as he watched the man draw closer and closer to the ground, reaching out until he was practically standing on his broomstick.

 

The Rowntree Counter wasn’t the point. It was the distraction. 

 

Potter had seen the snitch.

 

* * *

 

In the seconds that followed, the crowd began to catch up with Draco. The German seeker saw Potter’s movement, but was well too far behind to catch up with the notably fast paced flyer. 

 

Potter’s speed picked up the closer he got to the ground, and suddenly he closed his hands and dropped back to his broom, pulling upward all at once. He missed the ground by inches and the center goalpost by feet. He zoomed straight to the center of the pitch where he opened his muddy hand to reveal the golden snitch.

 

Cheers filled the stands and a mist of red sparks lit up the stormy sky.

 

The scoreboard flipped, reading 250-120.

 

“Potter has captured the snitch! England will be going to the finals! This is a day for history, folks!”

 

Quidd continued to exclaim excitedly, making less and less sense the more he yelled. The stands were in an uproar, every fan suddenly forgetting their wet clothes and cold feet. The rain still poured down in buckets, but grins plastered the face of every witch, wizard, and child in sight.

 

Draco smirked, both excited for the win but undeniably aggravated with Potter’s impressive playing. And this means he would be on the road with the team for longer, he reminded himself, his face slipping into its telltale scowl. 

 

As Draco stood there silently, surrounded by cheering fans, the English team gathered in the center of the pitch. The players were soaking wet, covering with mud, exhaustion plastering their faces, but they looked happier than anyone else in the stadium. Happy tears filled their eyes and they reached out, pulling each other into bone crushing hugs.

 

The german team walked down to shake each player’s hand, and the head official smiled, reaching out to place a large gold medallion in Potter’s hand.

 

Quidd had quieted down and was once again narrating the goings on in an understandable manner,

 

“The goes Eileen McMillian, presenting Harry Potter with the honorary galleon, made of pure goblin gold and inscribed with the date of the finals match. Eduardo Cantos, captain of the Brazilian National Team was presented with a similar galleon earlier this morning as Brazil defeated Italy to advance to the finals alongside England.”

 

“As you all prepare to exit the stands in the next few minutes, be sure to stop by the shops, now filled with banners and keepsakes to remember this momentous win.”

 

* * *

 

Ignoring the rest of Quidd’s speech, Draco began to shoulder his way out of the box, intending to exit the stands before the crowds started moving. He was soaking wet and exhausted, his back aching from the constant shivering of trying to remain warm. Draco’s press robes stuck to his skin like glue, and mud splashed its way up his trouser legs as he walked.

 

Once he was out of the stands Draco stepped out of the way to apparate back to the inn. Protection spells limiting him from appearing in his own room. He appeared in the doorway of the inn, quiet save for the sounds of the innkeeper scribbling away at her desk with a large quill. She looked up and smiled at him,

 

“How did the match go, dear?”

 

“England won.” Draco said simply.

 

“Now, you don’t seem all that excited by that,” she responded

 

Draco shrugged and passed into the lobby, barely mustering the energy to drag each leg up the next step. The walk up the five flights of stairs felt like the hardest thing Draco had done, and he was ready to collapse into a muddy puddle by the time he reached his hotel door.

 

The post match interviews would begin in an hour flat, and Draco wished to use all the time to return some heat into his veins. He stripped off his robes the second the door latched closed behind him. He flicked his wand toward the lavatory, where the sounds of handles turning and water flowing could be heard. Draco summoned a cup of tea to his hand and tossed a fluffy, rose colored towel over his arm.

 

He sank into the bath win a sigh and a contented groan. Placing the delicate cup on the ground next to him, Draco reached for the bottles of soaps to begin the process of scrubbing the mud off of his body. He selected a lavender scented scrub from amongst the group and began to wash himself down.

 

Draco thought back to the match, back to his annoyance with Potter and the man’s perfect flying.

 

It had been years since Draco and the chosen one had crossed paths, but Draco felt as if the man was everywhere. His face was plastered across every newspaper and magazine, and someone or another was always talking about his latest feat. Was it too much to ask to have some peace and quiet from the boy wonder after all of this time? Why couldn’t Harry Potter have retired to live a quiet life like Draco had done?

 

He could picture his last infuriating encounter with the man now. It was just under four years ago at the end of the trials. Lucius had been sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban, no less than he deserved. The Prophet had gone haywire, praising the sentencing and the aurors who made it possible.

 

Draco and Narcissa had been seen by the Wizengamot the following afternoon. The hall was packed full of onlookers, hoping to see the rest of the Malfoy family carted off to prison. He had stood by himself in the middle of the depressed space, clad in his finest silk dress robes and shaking without control as onlookers looked down on him from above.

 

Partway through the proceedings, just as they had finished racking up a long list of crimes against Draco, Harry Sodding Potter had stormed into the room demanding to be heard.

 

“He’s too young to be put away for this, are you fucking serious?” the enraged boy screamed at the assembled court, “You can’t punish someone for that. I know what I saw in Malfoy manor.”

 

The room had grown oddly quiet, a sense of foreboding and also a show of respect for the young war hero.

 

“What should Malfoy have done? They would have murdered him and his mother if they didn’t go along with everything. Lucius was the one in control. They forced Malfoy to get the mark, they threatened him with death, He wouldn’t have done any of it if he had the choice! He was forced into this as a child! A fucking child! I would know, it happened to me too.”

 

Harry paused, gesturing wilding, panting with the effort of his emotional outburst. The Wizengamot looked taken aback, remaining silent so that Potter could finish speaking,

 

“I guarantee that Malfoy would never have been involved if he had been given a choice. Give him the chance he deserves to live a better life, and I swear you won’t regret it.”

 

Potter had proceeded to sit down in the front row of benches, waiting for the verdict to be read aloud.

 

Malfoy had been pardoned of his crimes, sentenced to pay large reparations and under observation for three months. His mother was put on a year of house arrest with the same plentiful reparations. 

 

It was a pitifully small price to pay for all that Draco and his mother had done. Draco was grateful but he was furious. He knew himself, but Potter thought he had some greater insight. He had to have so much fucking faith in everyone.

 

Draco wouldn’t have done anything differently. He wouldn’t have joined the resistance or left the clutches of his father. Draco wouldn’t have been a better man even if he could have, and if anyone deserved a second chance, it wasn’t him. Draco was too much of a coward to do any of it.

 

Now saviour Potter had to go insert himself in Draco’s life, saving him all over again, and now Draco fucking owed Potter. Owed him his life, his freedom. It made Draco furious beyond belief. 

 

He still remembered shouldering his way past Potter as the boy had tried to talk to him after the trial.

 

“Draco, wait a-”

 

He had whipped around, tears of anger peaking out of the corners of his eyes.

 

“Don’t you dare call me that. Fuck off, Potter.”

 

Draco had stormed out without a glance backwards. It was the last time he had seen Potter face to face.

 

* * *

 

The warm bath water doing little to calm Draco’s persistent foul mood, he turned the tap off and grabbed the towel next to him, climbing out of the porcelain base.

 

He had just over twenty minutes before the press briefing in the conference room on the ground floor, which was to be followed by a boozy celebration banquet for players, press, and officials in the large garden. It was almost nine o’clock, so it was going to be a long night.

 

The event wasn’t formal, so Draco had no need to dress in full press robes, but he held himself to a higher standard than most wizards seemed to nowadays. He pulled a cleanly pressed pair of dark grey trousers from his trunk and paired it with a fitted emerald dress shirt. 

 

A Malfoy was never underdressed.

 

Draco retrieved a new set of parchment and quill from his kit and quickly tidied his room before heading down to the conference hall.

 

The hall itself was little more than a large ballroom filled with small groups of tables and chairs. A long table had been set with chairs to host the English players, most of whom had trickled into the space and were milling about.

 

They were all dressed in practice kits, their match kits no doubt being steam cleaned at this very second. Draco spotted Harry sitting in the dead center of the table, but looked quickly away, avoiding eye contact. He grabbed a seat at a small table in the back of the room, making zero effort to chat to the handful of other reporters there. By the time it hit 9:30, the cozy room was quite full of people, and reporters were throwing questions left and right.

 

The players were adept at fielding questions, letting the taunting or insignificant ones glance off them as if they hadn’t been spoken. Each player held his wand to his mouth to utilize the occasional amplifying spell, yet they managed to work as a team, not shouting over one another.

 

It was a surprisingly calm and organized press party, a fact that Draco would never have predicted. He had always viewed the England team as some sort of moral extension of Gryffindor, full of noise and ego and an annoying need to be the winner at all costs.

 

What frustrated Draco even more was how level headed Potter sounded. The man had lost the brutishness of his youth and spoke with what could almost be described as a sort of eloquence. He was funny and a bit crude, but kept the reporters engaged and obviously had the love of his team.

 

* * *

 

With only a few minutes to go, Draco finally raised his head from his parchment. He glanced around the room, his eyes wandering over the crowd of reporters with latent curiosity. His eyes roamed to the front of the room, skimming over Wormwood who was discussing practice strategies that had carried over successfully to match play.

 

Draco froze when he reached Potter. Their eyes had met in a flash, and Draco felt as if he was frozen in place. Potter looked shocked and then angry. 

 

Draco broke the gaze with fire in his eyes, grabbing his parchment and quickly gliding out of the room. He simply wasn’t in the mood for this right now. 

 

He took the opportunity to stalk down the hallway to the open double doors that lead to the large terrace space. No one but hotel staff was outdoors yet. They were milling out, chatting and putting finishing touches on gaudy burgundy decor that was floating all over the space.

 

Scanning the space, Draco saw the far side of the garden, attended to by a willowy woman who looked to have a bit of veela in her. He made eye contact with her and nodded brusquely, waltzing over to stand in front of her.

 

“Two bottles of goblin wine if you have it.” he muttered, throwing his hand into his pocket to search for his coin pouch.

 

“Oh, no need, sir. The team’s covered the bar for the night.”

 

Draco nodded, tuning in to the sounds of people starting to pour outdoors. He was in no mood to socialize and deal with the patronizing nature of ministry employees. Mclaggen would probably be here tonight, and the only way to make the man worse was to put some liquor in him.

 

Draco shuddered and grabbed the two large glass bottle with his hands, beelining for the doorway the second they left her grasp. He managed to successfully avoid the oncoming crowd, and Draco began to make his way upstairs, hoping for a night of peace and quiet before he could catch a portkey the following morning.

 

He took the stairs two by two, energy surging into his veins at the thought of getting away from the pressing crowds, the suspicious stares, and most importantly, the accusatory glare of Potter. Rounding the fourth floor staircase, Draco strained his ears for any sign of people milling about. He didn’t think he heard anyone. But picked up his pace slightly just in case.

 

Jogging up the final staircase, he looked down to rummage in his pocket with his free hand. He stepped onto the landing and turned the corner. 

 

In an instant, Draco ran into what felt like a brick wall. The glass bottles in his arms crashed open, dousing him with goblin wine and sending the acidic smell into the air. Draco fell forward, not even having the chance to reach out his arms to cushion the fall.

 

He landed in a heap, a large sputtering figure tangled beneath him.

 

“What the fuck, Malfoy?”

 

Draco cringed inwardly. He could have recognized the voice from a mile away. He  stilled instantly, and opened his eye’s to look straight into the face of a seething Harry Potter.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry Potter lay underneath Draco. He was still dressed in his practice kit, which was at this point doused in the dark red goblin wine that Draco had been carrying. Draco could see a large gash on the man’s forehead slowly trickling blood, where a stray piece of glass must have sliced into him on the way down.  


  


More than anything, Draco noticed the deep fury in his rival’s eyes. Draco lay there, tangled on top of the man, their faces inches apart, letting the anger seep into him.

  


When the situation finally clicked, Draco shoved him way off of Potter, trying his best to avoid the glass all over the floor in the process. As he got to his feet, he shoved his hand into the pocket of his trousers, withdrawing his thin hawthorn wand and pointing down towards the form on the floor.

  


“What in Merlin’s beard is wrong with you, Potter?” Malfoy snarled

  


Potter grimaced up at him, fumbling around beneath him in search of his own wand. He located it and stuck it up in front of him, countering Draco.

  


“I could damn well ask you the same thing. What the bloody fucking hell are you doing here?”

  


“I’m writing, you uneducated twat. If you ever picked up the paper, you might know that,” Draco raised his wand further, “Or do you only pick up publications that have your perfect, famous face plastered all over them.”

  


“I bloody well know you write, Malfoy. But not THIS! Not HERE!” Potter gestured wildly at the surroundings.

  


“Well, guess I’m here now. Look at all the fun it’s brought me.” malice filled Draco’s voice.

  


“Oh yeah, this right here is a blast for me, too. Of all places you could have shown up, really?” 

  


“Yeah, really. You know what Potter, not all of us are fucking privileged as you. I don’t have the world waiting on my doorstep just hoping to get a glimpse of perfect, beautiful, gracious boy wonder. I have an assignment, and that assignment is to be here.”

  


“Well you wouldn’t have a job if it wasn’t for me!” Potter snarled back, making his way to his feet, his wand not lowering an inch. The blood continued to drip down his face, shining off his smooth, tanned skin.

  


“Fucking low blow, Potter. I didn’t ASK for your help. That was your CHOICE. You could have left me to rot in Azkaban, but no, saviour Potter had to come to the rescue.” Draco paused, panting in his rage, “You decided you needed to save me. You need to save everyone, and that’s YOUR problem, NOT mine.”

  


“You’d rather me left you to rot in Azkaban?”

  


“Well fucking maybe, Potter. It’s not like you give a shit where I am. Trying to make up for using me as a human cutting board sixth year?”

  


Potter let out a shout and his wand cut through the air.

  


“Expelliarmus!” he yelled, just as “Stupefy” came hurtling out of Draco’s mouth.

  


The blue light of the stunning spell met the red jet of Potter’s disarming charm midair. The force of the collision set both men flying through the air, Malfoy slamming into the wall hard. As soon as his vision stopped spinning he was back on his feet, wand raised in a dueling stance.  


  


“Expelliarmus, Potter? Is that beginner’s charm still your defensive spell of choice?”

  


Potter was standing unsteadily in front of Draco, blood now smeared across his entire face and obscuring his vision.

  


“Why aren’t you down there socializing with all of your little chav friends? I’m sure any one of them will suck your dick later if you ask nicely.”

  


Potter flushed at that, his mouth moving but no sound coming out.

  


Draco’s hatred of Potter had reached an all time high. He had another week of time with the English team at a minimum, and he didn’t think he could ride through it with this much tension in the air.

  


“Fuck you, Malfoy. Fuck you and your ego and your need to hate everyone. Just because the whole wizarding world isn’t over the war doesn’t mean we all want you dead! Have you ever considered maybe putting Hogwarts behind you?”

  


“Doesn’t work as well as you’d think, Potter. Everyone still hates me. I may as well be in azkaban for how free I am to live in the wizarding world. You don’t seem so eager to have me back, so what’s your bloody point?”

  


Draco was yelling once again, stepping closer to Potter, ready to forego magic and punch the seeker in the face. As he stepped within a few feet of the man, he saw the anger in Potter’s face falter, replaced by pain and confusion. His hand reached up to his head, as if he was only now realizing there was a large open cut on his head.

  


Potter stumbled a bit on his feet, tripping to catch the wall to hold him up for support.

  


“What the fuck did you do, Malfoy?” he snarled

  


“What did I do? What did I do? You ran into me and very well sliced you own head open.” Malfoy motioned around at the ruins of the glass bottles and the large purplish puddles staining the rugs.

  


“Well can you forego attacking me momentarily and bring me down to a healer, Malfoy?”

  


Draco paused. He had no desire to help the man. In fact, every cell of his being was telling him to use this moment of weakness to hex Potter into next week. At the same time, however, if Draco was the reason the golden boy couldn’t compete in the World Cup finals, he was more than just out of a job.

  


Taking a deep breath and settling his thoughts, Draco reached out an arm to steady Potter. He began to lead Potter toward the door of his room, but the man dug in his heels with the strength he still seemed to have.

  


“What the fuck are you going to do to me, Malfoy?” Potter hissed, looking between Draco and the door in abject horror.

  


Draco was taken aback, “Oh grow up, Potter. The healers are probably drunk on fire whiskey at this point. If I had it my way, I would be halfway into a bottle of goblin wine. But regardless of what I WISH I could be doing right now, here we are. I have a healers kit with me. Minnie, our house elf, gave me instruction after the war.”

  


Potter looked taken aback at that.

  


“Oh grow up. Yes I listened to a house elf. I’m not my father, Potter. They’re quite useful creatures.”

  


As no more words seemed to be coming out of Potter’s mouth, Draco opened his door and dragged the wizard in behind him.

  


* * *

  


As Potter stumbled in behind him, Draco slammed the door shut with force and shoved the man down to sit on the edge of his bed. Potter seemed to teeter slightly back and forth, but looked to be in no real danger other than light headedness.

  


Draco clicked his tongue in annoyance and searched through his trunk for the cotton bag that held his array of balms and potions. He flicked his wand lazily towards Potter’s head, letting out a soft “tergeo”. The blood cleared itself off of Potter’s face in an instant, leaving behind a clean surface for healing magic.  


  


He stepped forward, letting his wand float in front of the three or four inch long cut above Potter’s right eye.

  


“God, do you have to go and get hurt at every turn, Potter? It’s like fate’s catching up because you managed to skate through the match without injury.”

  


Potter scoffed under his breath, sitting still as Draco’s wand settled on his forehead.

  


“Episkey,” he drawled, letting the word flow smoothly over his lips. Draco watched the cut stitch itself up almost completely, only a few droplets of blood escaping the curse. The gash was deep, and if Potter didn’t take it a bit easy the next day, it would probably break back open. Draco proceeded to tell that to Potter in the most scathing manner he could muster.  


  


“But don’t go blaming me if you’re out of commission for the finals, Potter. I quite like my job and don’t want a bumbling idiot like you fouling it up for me.”

  


Potter didn’t respond right away. He looked conflicted, both angry with Draco still but also well aware he was not in a position of power to say or do anything rash. When Potter didn’t respond, Draco pulled out a jar of sealing balm from his pouch. He globbed the thick green cream onto his fingers and spread it heavily onto Potter’s forehead. Potter withdrew with a gasp, cursing under his breath and lowering his eyes in a scowl,  


  


“You could have warned me it would sting, Malfoy.”

  


“Oh, can wee little Potter not handle a little pinch?”

  


“Oh fuck off.”

  


Draco turned away to bag up his supplies, letting a satisfied smirk fall across his lips.

  


“Now don’t go breaking that open Potter. The balm will help it heal without scarring. We don’t want to detract from your little lightning bolt, now, do we?”

  


Potter growled low under his breath but held his tongue.

  


Draco spoke again, “Now whenever your highness,” he drew the word out in a hiss, “feels inclined to walk back to his room he is welcome to. I have the lovely task of cleaning blood and wine off of my bed sheets to attend to.”

  


In a whirl of red, Potter was to his feet and stomping across the room. The door slammed behind him and the frames shuddered on the walls, nearly falling off their nails.

  


* * *

  


Draco stood in the center of his upturned room, fists still clenched and sweat pooling at the base of his neck. The Potter boy had a real talent for getting under his skin. If Draco could believe it, he would think Potter had sliced himself open just to inconvenience him. He glanced up to the clock on the wall. It now read just past one in the morning. Draco groaned. He had a portkey to catch at six am. He hadn’t even had a bite to eat or a drink to calm his nerves, but it was no use staying up any later.  


  


Draco threw a handful of cleaning spells toward his bed, effectively wiping away the blood and wine that stained the quilts. He stripped off his own stained clothes and climbed into the bed.

  


It took mere seconds for Draco to fall asleep. Before he knew it, sun was shining through his window and his wand vibrating smoothly on the nightstand next to him, signaling that it was time for him to depart for home.

  


* * *

  


Draco caught his portkey home with little incident. Only a handful of other witches and wizards had opted to take the early trip, so he was saved from too much excessive human interaction. No raging Ministry officials appeared, ready to disavow him, and no Potter in sight.

  


By the time Draco appeared in the center of his flat, he was ready to crawl back into back and sleep the rest of the day off. In the upcoming week, Draco would be churning out match articles left and right. Long columns, short think pieces, predictions for the finals, injury forecasts, the works.

  


The writing itself was simple and straightforward, but Draco admitted to himself that the large quantity of writing he was doing was actually quite a challenge. Notching up from an article a month to multiple a week was a real test of his abilities.

  


Now while Lee Jordan had said in as many words that Tanner was a cat among the pixies, he still must be a quick writer.

  


Draco took the next hour to write up an overview of the previous day’s match. He read through the smudged and crumpled parchment from the stormy day, detailing impressive quidditch maneuvers and plays. By 7:10, Draco had owled the piece off to the Prophet, where it would arrive just in time to be magically added to the morning edition. 

  


He took the remainder of Sunday to organize his rolls of parchment from the weekend, doing his best to salvage the wrinkled, smudged parchment from the stormy match. He drafted a few short pieces and stuffed it all into his bag, ready for some peace and quiet before the hum drum of the Prophet tomorrow.

  


The night came and went, and Draco found himself sleeping restlessly. He kept fidgeting and waking up, the events of the previous night scalded into the forefront of his mind. He kept picturing Potter bursting into his flat, dripping blood and filled with rage. His imaginary potter pulled out his wand and yelled and unintelligible jinx, whereupon Draco awoke, panting in his bed.

  


Stupid Potter and his stupid hair and his stupid propensity for danger and his stupid, stupid face. The man managed to look so put together even when doused in wine, and he looked painfully perfect now that he owned clothes that fit him properly. The stupid dark haired dream boy had to rush back into his life, overturning everything his wake and burying himself in Draco’s head. Now he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t concentrate on his writing, couldn’t do anything for Merlin’s sake. Draco wished he could just throw a full body bind on the man and be on with his life.  


  


Draco hated to admit it, but Potter’s success made him furious. All Draco had ever expected was that Potter would settle down with the Weasley girl, take some cushy management job at the ministry and start popping out little red headed brats left and right. But then again, Potter was never ordinary.

  


The man had to go and exceed everyone’s expectations. Joined one of the top teams in the British and Irish Quidditch league at the ripe young age of 18, only a month or so after the trials had ended. By mid-season he had made his way to starting seeker, and by the next season he was a team captain. Puddlemere United had won the championship with Potter at the helm at the ripe young age of 20.

  


On top of a flourishing quidditch career, Potter was in the press without end. Spotted around wizarding London, out to pubs with old Gryffindor classmates, giving speeches at ministry events, attending a charity ball at St. Mungo’s, the best man in Weasley’s wedding to the Granger girl.

  


Harry Potter smile out, shirtless and tanned, from the front of Witch Broomstick. His smiling visage shook hands with the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement as he was given some civilian honor or another. He stood in a crowd outside of Hogwarts, where he had been helping to repair the castle for the upcoming school year. Potter this and Potter that. Draco couldn’t escape it.

  


Draco’s life had been just as uprooted as everyone else during the war. He was struggling to get by. He was an emotional wreck. He had barely anyone in his life he could count on. And all that time he had to stare into the face of the man who had both saved his life and ruined it all.

  


Draco was exceeding expectations in the sense that he hadn’t gone back to his death eater roots. He hadn’t blown a fuse and gotten arrested. But he was living in muggle London, writing for a newspaper and dragging his pureblood name through the dirt. Now Draco knew better. He despised his father and the Dark Lord and his old self. But it had taken him time to come to that realization. He had done nothing to redeem his family name. He hadn’t spoken out about the war or made any public shows of reconciliation.

  


Those were things he had always planned on doing. But when Draco was up every night having a mental breakdown and overdosing himself on dreamless sleep to avoid the visions of fiendfyre in the night, there was only so much he could do.

  


And now, here Draco was. It was four years later. He had landed a permanent job at the Prophet that he actually liked. He had gained some respect from his coworkers. He had a few friends. His mother was doing better. He had financial stability. All at once, it seemed as if everything was going to come crashing back down.

  


One encounter with Harry Potter and Draco felt as if he was ready to collapse back in on himself.

  


He didn’t understand why that man could turn him upside down so easily. From the moment he met the scrawny boy with the big smile to the moment the tall, green eyed man had stormed out of his room. For the last eleven years, Draco’s life had been shaped and twisted by Harry Potter. Shaking his head and rolling back over, Draco tried his best to veil the images of Harry Potter rolling through his mind. He tried his best occlumency, building up mental brick walls, only for them to be torn back down.  


  


Draco Malfoy hoped for sleep to overcome him, dreading the week to come.


	4. Chapter 4

The following few days were as miserable as Draco anticipated. He had yet to sleep through the night, his mind riddled with images of Harry Potter soaring towards him on a broomstick, flames curling around the two of them. Except now the twiggy teenaged Potter was replaced by the hardened, muscular frame of seeker Potter. He sat aloft his firebolt, dark red English robes hugging his frame. And instead of grabbing Draco by the wrist, pulling him up behind him to sit on the broom, Potter swooped low, nearly colliding with Draco and laughing maniacally. Draco awoke each night as the forms of the fiendfyre began to wrap themselves around him.

 

The writing was weighing him down as well. Draco flooed to the Prophet headquarters by eight every morning, and he had been staying well into the evening to get pieces ready for the coming morning editions. Thankfully there were no press events early in the week, giving him time to catch up on his writing.

 

Draco had been drinking coffee like a madman. He was shaking from the caffeine in his system and from the lack of sleep threatening to pull his eyelids closed at any second. He was shaky and anxious and ready for his assignment to be over.

 

In what seemed like an eternity but also the blink of an eye, Wednesday was closing around Draco fast. He would be leaving that weekend from the ministry to just outside of Bern, Switzerland. The Swiss Ministry had won the bid to host the finals match the year previously. Their mountainous terrain proved difficult for constructing a new pitch & stands, but offered wonderful cover for hiding the match from the surrounding muggles.

 

In traditional fashion, the teams and both Brazilian and English press would be sharing the same accommodations, with the added bonus of the Swiss, English, and Brazilian officials lodging with them this time around. Draco had tried to picture an inn large enough to fit the large numbers comfortably, but conceded that it was either enlarged with magic or the size of a castle.

 

* * *

 

He arrived at the Ministry by floo at seven that evening, arms laden with heavy bags and his typewriter. He entered one of the large golden lifts to reach level seven, the location of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. There was a small crowd gathered waiting for the portkey to leave. Lee Jordan made eye contact with Draco and gave him a small nod of approval. The rest of the group paid him little attention.

 

Within the hour, the few dozen witches and wizards had appeared on a large lawn. Draco gasped audibly at the sight before him, and those around him did the same.

 

To his left was a large mountain vista. They were placed at high altitude, looking down in the direction of the small Swiss town. To their right, a huge stone castle was built into the side of a sheer rock face. It looked like the Swiss response to Hogwarts. It was a huge structure. Made out of light grey stone, peaks and towers stuck out in every direction. A monumental oak door sat in the middle, propped open to welcome visitors inside. Large blue banners hung from the windows,  _“424th International Quidditch World Cup”_ stitched upon them in silver thread.

 

Draco made for the entrance, ready to get settled down. The players would all have arrived earlier this week, practicing in the area to acclimate to the higher altitude. 

 

He walked into a large hall, well over thirty feet high. People were milling about, talking in low voices in an array of different languages. He made his way to a large desk, claiming his key, feeling a sense of deja vu from the week prior.

 

Thankful he wasn’t on the top floor again, Draco climbed a single staircase towards his room. A large common area opened up in front of him, reminiscent of a common room back at school. The stone walls were hung with tapestries and paintings, overstuffed leather chairs clustered in small groups. Thick rugs scattered across the stone floor, multiple fireplaces boasting roaring fires. A small sense of comfort washed over Draco as he peered down the hall looking for his room. A thin, balding man walked his way from down the hall,

 

“Will you be attending the dinner?” he asked Draco in a thick Brazilian accent

 

“What dinner?” Draco replied with confusion

 

“They’re hosting us all in the hall downstairs. Players, writer, everyone. It starts in a few minutes.”

 

“Oh, um, thanks for the heads up.” Draco replied as the man made his way toward the staircase.

 

Draco hurried to pull the key from his pocket, opening his door. The room was decorated in the same fashion as the large castle, warm and cozy and undeniably Swiss. Draco dropped his bags in the corner. He pulled off his heavy traveling cloak and his official press robes, replacing them with slim black trousers and a deep blue sweater. He checked his watch for the time.

 

Draco quickly stored his things, walking back toward the entryway in search of the dining hall.

 

* * *

 

The large, vaulted room was filled by multiple long tables. People were scattered about, some in the red of the English team and others in the green of the Brazilians. Heaping trays of food covered the tables, and decanters full of wine and pumpkin juice gleamed in the candle light.

 

Draco looked around, seeing a long table that was mostly empty. He sat down on the bench, reaching for a serving dish in front of him. When his plate was sufficiently full, he reached for the nearest jug of Pumpkin juice. He felt the presence of someone sitting down at the table and he glanced over. 

 

Harry Potter was sitting at the table across from him, loading his plate with food as if this didn’t go against everything in the book.

 

Draco slammed his plate down in front of him.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Hello, Malfoy. Mind if I sit here?”

 

“Do you think I mind? Of course I mind! All I want is some peace and quiet for the next few days,” Draco hissed at Potter under his breath. He couldn’t believe the wizards audacity

 

“I won’t bother you.”

 

“You already have.”

 

The two fell into an uncomfortable silence. Draco picked at his food, choosing not to look up at his plate. Eventually Draco looked up to reach for another plate,

 

“You know your chances are awful against Brazil’s defense?”

 

“You’re yanking my wand, right? Do you even care if we win?”

 

Draco let out a half hearted shrug.

 

“Seriously, Malfoy? I know you hate me, but you really want us to lose?”

 

“I never said that, Potter-”

 

“You may as well have. Now I know this country hasn’t always been the best to you, but have a little patriotic integrity.”

 

“It has nothing to do with integrity, Potter. I frankly think Raul Almeida has a leg up on good old Wood. And Carlos Borreno is a veteran beater. I don’t think you can one up them.”

 

“Borreno might be a veteran player, but his wheels are grinding. The man is ten years too old to be playing at least. A broom can only make up for so much. And I seriously think it goes beyond you thinking that Brazil is better. You’ve always hated me, you’ve always hated Wood. For some godforsaken reason you seem to have it out for the entirety of the Ministry even though they were the ones who decided not to throw you in Azkaban. I know the war sucked, but does quidditch really have anything to do with it? Get off your high hippogriff about writing the sodding quidditch articles and maybe have a good time while you’re here. I know as well as you do that you used to love quidditch. You were pretty good too once you got over yourself and actually practiced a bit.”

 

Potter stopped talking abruptly and turned back to his food.

 

“I guess we’ll see on Sunday then, Potter.” Draco hissed slowly, injecting as much malice as he could muster into the words.

 

“I guess we will, Malfoy.”

 

With that the two of them fell back into silence. Potter finished scraping the last of the food from his plate and stomped away, heading out of the hall altogether. Draco sat, fuming for a few minutes, before he followed Potter out the doors and back to his empty room.

 

* * *

 

The next couple of days were busy beyond belief. Each team practiced for well over three hours a day, back to back. In order to see a full rundown of each team’s talents and downfalls, Draco attended each practice. He sat down with members of the Department of Magical Games and Sports to discuss the impact of the world cup appearance on the magical community of England. 

 

Draco found himself up early and to bed late writing. He was still unable to sleep properly and was relying on the aid of dreamless sleep potion to catch a few hours of meaningful rest a night. The fiendfyre nightmares still plagued his mind when the potion had worn off, and the overwhelming presence of Harry Potter in his life did little to resolve the problem.

 

Potter had joined him at every meal since his first night in the castle. Every time Draco took his seat, Potter would sit down across from him mere minutes later. 

 

Sometimes they sat in tense silence, the only remarks sarcastic and biting. Each of them leaving the meal fuming and dissatisfied. Other times they argued, but not with as much violence. As quidditch was the only topic they could seemingly cover without wanting to pull out their wands and hex each other, that is what they stuck to. Draco took it upon himself to defend the Brazilian team at all costs. He forcefully beat Potter back, telling him again and again that they were fighting a losing battle. It wasn’t that Draco hated England, he said, it was simply that Brazil was more talented.

 

Internally, Draco told himself that it wasn’t because he hated England, it was because he hated Potter.

 

And he did hate Potter, he continued to remind himself repeatedly. The man was infuriating. The more Draco talked to him the more stubborn he realized Potter was. He was easily frustrated, inflammatory, and a bit crass. When Potter made a snide comment, Draco did his best not to let a chuckle splutter through his clenched teeth. He made sure to follow up anything remotely charming that Potter said with a rude comment or thinly veiled insult.

 

But unconsciously, the hatred of Harry Potter was becoming more of an act than a reality. 

 

Yes Draco still found him to frightfully aggravating and quite unbearable. The man wore ratty t shirts when he could afford any clothing he wished. He used foul language without remorse, had wretched table manners, and seemed to know far less about the world outside of quidditch than he should.

 

Despite all of his frustrating traits though, a small part of Draco liked Potter’s company. He wasn’t entirely awful, anyways, and he couldn’t spend the whole weekend with no one but Lee Jordan for company, after all. 

 

* * *

 

As Friday began to draw to a close, Draco apparated from his seat in the pitch stands to the hallway outside of his room. The Swiss ministry was holding a rather formal event to celebrate the World Cup that evening, and he had to change out of his press robes. 

 

The ministry members, press, and players were all invited. Some friends and family of the players were flooing in from the surrounding areas of the city, and other prominent members of the international wizarding community were slated to be there.

 

All in all, Draco was shocked they were holding such a boozy event so close to the date of the final match. The players needed nothing more than to be nursing a hangover and exhaustion while they competed for the highest honor in quidditch. Then again, hangover potions did work pretty well.

 

Draco himself needed a stiff drink more than anything. He newfound tension-filled conversations with Potter were driving up his anxiety. The wine they served at meals could barely be counted as alcohol, and every inquiry he had made for liquor had sent him away empty handed.

 

The watch on his wrist read eight pm, and the party started at nine sharp. Draco ran a bath and sorted through the clothing he had packed, searching for something appropriate for the vent. He settled on a dark green form-fitting button up with a matching charcoal grey waistcoat and trousers. Dress robes would have been appropriate, but Draco had grown fond of more traditional muggle formal attire. What his father would think he did not care to know.

 

Draco hung the delicate clothes on the shower rung to steam with the steam of the bath and sunk into the hot water, sighing. He focused on letting the tension drain out of his body, doing anything to stop the face of Potter from rising into his mind. That failing to work, he sighed and focused on massaging the silky shampoo into his scalp. Draco lay back, letting himself float up in the large tub, closing his eyes and sighing with contentment.

 

A few minutes later he toweled himself off and slowly dressed himself in front of the floor length mirror. He brushed his hair out of his face, tucking the longer pieces behind his ear. His white-blonde hair was starting to grow a bit long. Never unruly like Potter’s and far shorter than the shoulder length hair that his father had sported, his silky hair fell over his eyes and tickled the nape of his neck.

 

Draco slowly ran a straight razor over his face, smoothing away any small signs of stubble that had grown over the last day. Blonde maybe, but it was scratchy nonetheless.

 

He stood back, admiring his own appearance in the mirror. The almost black green shirt was buttoned up almost all of the way, a couple of open buttons letting the nape of his neck show through. The silky shirt was fitted, the buttons not straining against his chest but giving him minimal room to grow. The trousers were tapered, ending fitted and just above the ankle. Draco went sockless, his bony ankles sticking over above his dark leather oxfords.

 

_“A Malfoy is never underdressed"_ Draco repeated in his head.

 

Giving himself a final once over, Draco tucked his wand into his pocket and closed the door behind him. In the hallway, Draco came upon multiple groups making their way down to the party. Some had doned dress robes, others similar attire to his own. The handful of Brazilian players he saw wore simple shirts emblazoned with the team insignia.

 

Draco tucked his hands into his pocket and followed the crowd down the staircase and into the hall. 

 

The tables had been transformed into a handful of small high top tables and a long bar filled with bottles and glasses. The large double doors opened onto a large terrace, and the candles floating about were at low light, allowing for a sort of ambiance Draco had no idea the space was capable of.

 

A soft jazzy music played in the background, emitting from a piano and saxophone playing themselves in the corner.

 

People milled about, the volume high. Some danced in the center of the space, others whispered to each other in corners. Some were loud and jovial, others quiet and subdued. Draco made a beeline for the bar, pouring himself a two fingers of firewhiskey. He tilted his head back, downing the drink in one gulp. He topped his glass back off and looked around curiously.

 

The skinny older man that Draco had met in the hallway was standing nearby, and he looked up, making eye contact with Draco. He smiled and motioned for Draco to come join the group, and Draco walked over with hesitation in his step.

 

“Ah, we met earlier, did we not?” the man asked

 

“Oh, yes. I’m Draco, a member of the English press team here to cover the event.”

 

The man stuck out his hand, gripping Draco’s own with a bone crushing grip,

 

“It’s nice to meet you, Draco. I am Lorenzo, an officer for the Brazilian Office of Magical Recreation. Just like your English Department of Magical Games and Sports.”

 

The older man was quite eager to welcome Draco into his small group of Brazilian officers. They all held some position in magical sport, and seemed excited to talk about their work. While Draco was not involved with magical policy, we was well versed in the workings of the Ministry and answer the questions they threw at him with little difficulty.

 

The company was refreshing. No one seemed to know who he was, not inquiring after his last name or recognizing his visage from a paper. They had no idea his father was imprisoned for war crimes or that Draco himself had been put on the stand a few short years ago. They were simply a handful of friendly coworkers excited to get to know the foreigner. 

 

He continued to drink throughout the evening. After a couple of engaging hours of conversation with the friendly Brazilian officials, Draco wandered back to the bar in search of another strong drink. He was a bit tipsy, which he noticed in the slight sway of his body when he walked. 

 

Draco grabbed the bottle of firewhiskey and refilled his glass, four fingers at least. There were no practices tomorrow, so he really had no reason to be up early in the day. Really, he should be up early to write, but he was a quick worker and could sleep in one night. All of this stress, anxiety, and fucking Harry Potter in his life, he needed another drink.

 

Glancing around, Draco surveyed the crowd gathered under the dim lighting. The Brazilian players gathered in a corner, officials milled about together, and a few dozen visitors wearing no official robes visited with friends and family. Most of the press seemed to be dressed in press robes unlike Draco, and e recognized a few faces from English and international publications. 

 

Draco sighed, leaning back against the table as he looked around. It was nearly midnight already. He would have to finish his latest piece for the Prophet tomorrow, an analysis of team strategies over the past few years, diving head first into defensive and offensive patterns. He didn’t need to be up at the crack of dawn, but he did need to be functioning. 

 

Draco frankly didn’t want to socialize any longer. The Brazilian officials were very welcoming and quite nice, but a glass of wine in his quarters sounded much more appealing than small talk with strangers or forced interactions with other Englishmen at the event. Glancing around to make sure none of the waitstaff was looking, Draco refilled his glass to the brim with firewhiskey and made for the doorway.

 

He stepped into the hallway, appreciating the drop in noise the second he had turned the corner. The hall was nearly unlit, the only source of lighting a large glass window letting moonlight shine off of the polished stone tiles. A large glass chandelier hung nearly thirty feet above him, but every one of the dozens of candles sat there unlit. It was a bit eerie, but it was peaceful. It was reminiscent of Hogwart’s grand entryway, with it’s huge staircase and reverberating stone everywhere.

 

Draco paused for a moment to admire his surroundings before heading upstairs. He swayed slightly as he stood still, and he let the calming effects of the alcohol wash over him. He brought the rim of the glass to his lips, Draco heard the distinctive sounds of hurried footsteps on the stone. 

 

Before he could identify the figure storming towards him through the dark, Draco was checked hard in the side. His drink sloshed all over his chest, and the glass nearly went flying. 

 

“Whoops.” a cold voice muttered in his direction. 

 

Cormac Mclaggen stood towering over Draco, smirking. He reeked of alcohol, and his eyes glowed with anger. 

 

* * *

 

“Can’t believe it’s taken me so long to run into little Draco Malfoy again,” he breathed into Draco’s face, stepping closer aggressively.

 

“Do you really want to do this, Mclaggen?” 

 

He was well aware that Mclaggen could overpower him in a heartbeat. The man had inches and maybe three stone on him. Mclaggen’s wand was held firmly in his right hand, while Draco’s was tucked inside of his suit jacket, not easily accessible.

 

“Oh Malfoy, I just can’t help myself.”

 

“Well, I’m just going to leave you here-”

 

Mclaggen moved suddenly for a man of his size, grabbing Draco around the neck with one hand and clenching his meaty hand around Draco’s left wrist, preventing him from reaching for his wand..

 

“Not so quick now, Malfoy. You must think I’m stupid.”

 

Draco tried to pull away, but Mclaggen’s hulking figure was much stronger.

 

“Fuck off, Mclaggen. We’re here to work; can’t you just let me do my job in peace”

 

Mclaggen chuckled maniacally, “Malfoy, I’m going to teach you a lesson in respect.”

 

Mclaggen tightened his grip around Draco’s neck, restricting his windpipe and causing him to heave heavily. As Draco was scrambling, trying to pry Mclaggen’s hand off of his neck, the man released his grip. He pulled back his arm and threw a punch, landing his fist in the pit of Draco’s stomach.

 

Draco collapsed, letting the glass drop from him hand and shatter loudly on the floor. He grabbed his stomach in pain, and his eyes watered uncontrollably. As he was trying to stand up, the hard tip of a shoe collided with his ribs. Mclaggen seemed to have decided that magic was unnecessary if he could best Draco with sheer force and brutality.

 

While Draco considered himself an adept spellcaster, he held little in the way of physical power. He was thin and lithe, speedy on a broomstick but with little strength to back it up. He was tall, but little muscle hugged his frame. He had waned during the war, and the process of rebuilding his strength had been an arduous process.

 

Now, none of this was rolling through Draco’s head. He was focused on breathing and clearing the tears from his eyes so that he could escape Mclaggen’s onslaught. Draco could feel Mclaggen standing over him, and the toe of his boot pressed firmly into his side, pinning him down. Mclaggen looked to be deliberating on what to subject Draco to next. No matter what the auror claimed, Draco didn’t find Mclaggen to be all that more intelligent than Goyle.

 

A few seconds went by in silence, the only noise Draco’s hard panting and squirming on the floor.

 

It didn’t last. Running footsteps suddenly sounded from down the hall. All at once, Mclaggen had spun around, his wand raised in the air.

 

As if Draco’s night couldn’t get worse, the figure of Harry Potter appeared out of the darkness.

 

* * *

 

“What the bloody hell is going on here, Mclaggen?” Potter screamed as he skidded to a halt. His face was tight with rage and his wand was grasped firmly in his hand.

 

“Nothing for you to worry about, Potter. Let me be and I’ll finish up with weasel.”

 

“You can’t be fucking seri-”

 

Potter was interrupted as Mclaggen slashed his wand through the air crudely, sending a stunning spell in the direction of the seeker.

 

Potter dodged quickly to the side and sent a stunning spell right back. Mclaggen blocked it, but before he had a chance to utter another word, Potter’s arm had flicked out again.

 

In only a matter of seconds, Mclaggen was down. A full body bind sent him falling hard onto the tile. Draco was in pain, but coherent enough to move out of the way so that the large body didn’t hit him on the way down.

 

Potter was rushing over. He leaned down to grab Draco around the waist. Potter pulled him across the floor with ease, leaning him up against the wall.

 

“Malfoy, are you okay?”

 

Draco didn’t respond, still heaving and out of breath from the hard kicks to his abdomen.

 

“Say something!” Potter demanded harshly

 

“I’ll be fine.” Draco got out, pausing to pant between each word.

 

Potter crouched over him, squinting into Draco’s eyes in the darkness. Their faces were less than a foot apart, but Draco could barely see him in the darkness. Potter had pulled him into a corner of sorts, out of the reach of the moonlit patches of light.

 

Potter’s eyebrows furled in obvious frustration. He let himself sink to his knees, still mere inches from Draco.

 

“I can’t believe they let that fucking nutcase come to the match. I had a pint with Lee Jordan last week and he told be Mclaggen confronted you at the semi match. Lee even said he reported the incident to his higher ups. Glad to see they did fuck all about it.”

 

The air was finally returning to Draco’s lungs, and he was able to sit up slightly higher.

 

“What did you expect, Potter? The Ministry hates me. If they had it their way, I’d be locked up alongside dear old dad. They probably love this.”

 

Draco watched Potter shift, pulling out his wand. He lit a soft lumos, illuminating the short space between them. He continued speaking.

 

“Don’t give me that shit, Malfoy. Yeah, a handful of arseholes need to sort themselves out, maybe a whole lot of arseholes. Not everyone’s out for your blood.”

 

Draco shifted, bringing his eyes in line with Potter’s vibrant green ones.

 

“Get this into your thick skull Potter. You’ve never spent a day in my shoes. You’ve never spent a day not being loved by the whole world. Mclaggen isn’t an anomaly.”

 

Potter swallowed, looking back into Draco’s eyes. For the first time, Draco really noticed how closely the two of them were situated. Draco had but back pressed against the cool stone wall, his legs spread open. Potter crouched between Draco’s legs on his knees. If Draco paid attention, he could feel Potter’s breath ghost across his cheeks.

 

Potter was as well dressed as Draco had ever seen him. The man wore fitted black trousers that strained against his awkward positioning on the ground. His shirt was a deep burgundy, matching the team’s kits that they would be wearing in the match. His hair was a mess as always, but it was pushed back slightly to reveal his thin, jagged scar. Resting on Potter’s nose was the same round glasses that he had always owned. 

 

His skin was tanned from prolonged exposure to the small amounts of sun that the English landscape provided. His shoulders were broad and his chest thick with muscle. Seekers were usually lightweight, speedy players, but Potter’s tall frame hand managed to pack on a good amount of muscle in his years of training.

 

The silence trailed between them, Potter staunchly holding eye contact between the two men. Draco wanted to look away, but felt glued to the spot. He broke the silence.

 

“What are you doing, Potter? Are you trying to be my saving grace again after all of these years? Do you think I can’t take care of myself?”

 

Potter looked surprised, and leaned back, breaking the spell between them.

 

“Look, Potter. I’m going to go get some sleep. You should too. Big day coming up.”

 

Draco placed his hands on Potter’s wide chest, pushing the man backwards. Unsteadily, Draco made his way to his feet and stumbled toward the staircase. A sharp pain blossomed across his side, but he remained standing and clung to the rail as he began his climb.

 

Draco glanced back over his shoulder as he reached the top of the staircase, and he could just make out the dark figure of Harry Potter, looking up at him from down below.


	5. Chapter 5

Saturday morning came and went without Draco leaving his quarters. He had awoken early in the morning, a headache rearing in his brain. He tossed back a drought of hangover potion and lay back down in bed. He cracked open a worn copy of  _ Tales of Magical Heroics in 17th Century Europe _ , a hardback book on fantastical tales and stories that he had owned since his childhood.

 

It was similar to the  _ Tales of Beedle the Bard _ , simply more complex and lacking the overarching moral compass that fairy tales seemed to always have. Draco carried the large book with him whenever he traveled, and he often fell back into one of the stories whenever he needed a break from reality.

 

By the time Draco set the book back down, it was well past 11 am. He sat up and stretched, feeling the aching in his side as he moved. He lifted his night shirt and sighed down as the spread of purple and blue trailing across his ribs. His side had taken a real beating last night, but it could have been a lot worse if Potter hadn’t interrupted almost right away.

 

Draco physically shook his head in frustration, not knowing what to think. First Potter is livid with him at the semi finals. Then he seems to perk up right away and wants to sit with Draco in the dining hall. Maybe he’s a bit grumpy, but he’s world’s nicer to Draco than he had been in the past. Now Potter was coming to Draco’s rescue, defending him from harm and making sure he’s okay.

 

_ Did Potter want to be his friend? What did Potter want? _

 

Draco’s mind flashed back to the moments before Draco escaped up the staircase. The two men had been situated so close to one another. Potter’s lips had been mere inches from Draco’s, his eyes a brighter green than Draco had ever noticed as they stared at one another. It was a moment filled with heightened tension that seemed to have erupted from thin air. A different sort of tension than had graced their prior interactions.

 

Oh no, Draco realized. He thought Harry Potter was fit. And not in a passive, wow Potter-sure-has-gotten- it-together-since-Hogwarts way. It was in a I’d-bloody-well-like-to-shag-Harry-Potter’s-brains-out sort of way.

 

Draco groaned and leaned his head back. This was not good, not good at all. Draco hated Potter. The man’s presence made his blood boil. He was rude and egotistical, and his public celebrity made Draco want to rip the Prophet in two. Potter had been his enemy since the first step he took in the halls of Hogwarts. That was set in stone. That was history. Draco couldn’t just go and be attracted to Potter all of a sudden. It undermined every ounce of Draco’s being. Every ounce of his pride.

 

Anyways, Potter was straight so it didn’t matter. The boy had been shacking up with the Weasley girl last time he had checked, and at school he had been all over that Ravenclaw Cho Chang. Potter was straight and uninterested in Draco and was just trying to let bygones be bygones.

 

Draco just had to avoid Potter. It was another day until the match. Maybe a week or so on the road for a victory tour if they won. There were a dozen players, press members, and officials. He would make himself scarce and Potter would be none the wiser. Then, Draco could go back to his normal Prophet job and forget this inconvenient flood of sexual tension had ever happened. Draco would stop going to muggle London as he always had. He wouldn’t see Potter out and about. He could find some dark haired, muscular muggle boy to shag as he always had. His life would go on.

 

* * *

 

Draco’s stomach finally rumbled as the clock was nearing noon. Draco had spent the last hour trying his best to work on an article, but his mind could not stay focused. He dreaded the idea of going down to the dining hall, but he needed food at some point. He gathered his things and scurried down the staircase, hoping not to run into anyone he knew.

 

The soft thrum of voices could be heard from the hallway as people gathered for the midday meal. Draco glanced his head in the large space, scoping it out before he walked in. Potter was seated on the far end of the table with Oliver Wood and a handful of other English players. They were chatting jovially, and none of them seemed to have noticed the blonde head surveying the room.

 

Draco turned the opposite way and strutted in, grabbing a seat and a table on the other side of the hall. He was facing Potter, but Draco refused to look up from his plate and his parchment. He had no idea if Potter had seen him, and didn’t care to find out. He poked around in his notes, drafting a quick letter to the Prophet and working silently on his upcoming articles.

 

Managing to get some more work done once the rumble of his stomach had stopped distracting him, Draco was happy to sit in the hall all day. The voices in the hall started to taper off slightly as people got up to get ready for the next day’s match. Within the next twenty minutes, almost every voice had dissipated from the hall. Draco, not hearing much noise, finally dared to look up from his notes. 

 

He nearly fell out of his seat. Potter was sitting across from him at the wide table, hands folded in front of him, staring straight at Draco.

 

“What in the living hell, Potter? Regret saving me last night and trying to off me with a heart attack?”

 

Potter’s brows furled in frustration, but he didn’t speak. He reached out to grab a small cake from where the platters of savory foods had transfigured into desserts.

 

“Potter, can I help you with something? You seem to be keen on sitting with me, and I have no clue why, as you don’t seem to like me much at all.”

 

“You weren’t at breakfast.”

 

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Observant little Gryffindor, aren’t you?”

 

“I was worried. After last night and all.” Potter muttered, face flushing with anger.

 

“That’s nice. Thank you Potter. I assure you I’m doing fine. Your concern is quite touching, though.”

 

Potter sat there in stony silence, any contentment draining from his angular face.

 

“Now you never answered my question Potter. Why on earth do you subject me to this tooth grinding company at every meal? Are you trying to make me lose my appetite?”

 

Potter sat there in silence, seeming to contemplate his answer.

 

“It’s refreshing.” Potter settled upon.

 

“What’s refreshing, Potter? Elaborate, why don’t you!” Draco was speaking in sharp whispers.

 

Potter took a deep breath and spat out the words in a quick stream, barely pausing to breathe,

 

“You don’t like me and it’s refreshing, Malfoy. Everyone bloody likes me, and I don’t deserve it. All I do is catch a bloody ball in the air. You hate me, and it’s normal. That’s how it’s always been, and it’s easy.”

 

He paused, then added, “And it’s nice to talk quidditch with someone who’s not on my bloody team.”

 

Draco raised an eyebrow. He leaned over, closing some of the distance between himself and Potter. He spoke in a low, guttural whisper, letting the words wash over Potter smoothly,

 

“You like me because you don’t like me? How refreshing.”

 

“Ah, yes.” Potter confirmed, squirming slightly in his seat.

 

“You know, you’re not quite as awful as I anticipated, Potter.” Draco admitted cooly, still bent across the table so that they were separated by less than half a meter, “Quite a pain in my arse, as always, but not a complete and total prick.”

 

“Uh, same to you I guess, Malfoy.” Potter responded uneasily.

 

Draco leaned in further, enjoying the sight of Potter twitching uncomfortably under his intense gaze, “What an honor, Potter.”

 

In an instant, Draco had leaned back, breaking their gaze and stepping smoothly to his feet. He leaned back over his shoulder,

 

“Good luck tomorrow, Potter. Don’t muck it up for everyone else.”

 

* * *

 

As the afternoon wore on, Draco found himself wandering aimlessly around the grounds outside of the pitch. As no practices were being held today, and the sky was overcast with thick clouds, the surrounding area was nearly deserted.

 

The view was stunning. Hogwarts had a traditional Scottish atmosphere: foggy, rainy, and full of lush forestry. Malfoy manor has been surrounded by misty woods and painstakingly crafted gardens. This was much different. Huge blue mountains swept down into deep green valleys. The town of Bern could be seen far below, colorful houses dotting the landscape. It was overwhelming with power, and if Draco wasn’t here for work, he could have spent the entire day staring out at the view.

 

Draco sat himself down in the thick grass, looking over the valley to write. He glanced up occasionally, taking the landscape in and breaking from writing. The writing itself was not going well. Draco was writing a piece on the team captains which would run in the Prophet tomorrow morning before the match. Cantos was easy to write about. A dark skinned and beautiful man of thirty years, he had been playing since the age of eighteen in Brazil. He was adept keeper, a charitable man, and seemingly charming. He rode a thunderbird 100 with grace and had led his team to a World Cup championship already. 

 

The analytics of Cantos’ play and the assessment of his general character flowed out of his quill with ease. Once Draco had started on Potter, he had dragged to a stop. How did he write about Potter? As a player it was easy. He was swift and nimble on a broom, but paired his quickness with unparalleled strength when it came to seekers. His long limbs and wide arm span gave him an advantage over other seekers in the Cup. He had a knack for distraction and strategy, keeping his team executing plays at the speed of light. Overall, Potter was a player of both skill and cunning. A rather Slytherin trait, Draco thought to himself.

 

But what did Draco write of Potter’s character? Did he write that although infuriating, Potter was a well spoken man whose main focus was the well being and success of his team? Did he mention that Potter was an infuriating child, and that he was still frustrating as all hell? He could bring up the man’s saviour complex, and his need to help others. His overwhelming knowledge of the sport and dedication that went deeper than one could imagine. 

 

Draco could spin tales of Potter’s problematic traits, his easily provoked personality and his almost dangerous hatred of losing. But Draco could also lift Harry Potter to the limelight. The sometimes charming man who worked hard for others and really didn’t care for people’s adoration of him.

 

Draco was in a rut.

 

Every word of Potter shot images of the man’s green eyes, deep rough laugh, and wide grin into his head. Draco couldn’t separate the man he thought Potter had been to the man he knew him to be.

 

Draco’s internal struggle was interrupted by a voice calling over to him from across the grass.

 

“Mind if I join you, Malfoy?”

 

Lee Jordan walked in Draco’s direction even as the words were still passing through his lips. He shot a grin towards Draco, seating himself down on the grass next to him. Draco blinked in confusion at the man who had been so friendly the last couple of weeks.

 

“Oh, no of course not. How are you, Jordan?”

 

“Bloody stressed, if I tell you the truth. These mountains make our jobs way more difficult than one would think. The number of magical creatures we’ve had to relocate to finish setting up the damned pitch is astonishing.”

 

Draco nodded stiffly, “We are in Bowtruckle territory aren’t we?”

 

“Yeah, and the damn things look like twigs. But they’re important so we’ve got to move every one somewhere else. And I tell you what, they don’t very much liked being moved.”

 

Draco chuckled, the image of a bunch of ministry officials grappling with the small branch like creatures amusing.

 

“No Department of Magical Creatures to help you out?”

 

“The swiss Magical Creature Squad was here, but they were dealing with the larger creatures. We were tasked with helping them out. Not the bloody job I signed up for, I’ll tell you that.”

 

The two lapsed into surprisingly comfortable silence, sitting and looking out across the valley.

 

With less gusto, Lee Jordan began speaking again.

 

“You know, Malfoy, Harry told me what happened last night.”

 

“Did he now?” Draco’s voice had risen in petulance

 

“Mclaggen is a joke if you ask me. I’m going to report him, and make sure the complaints go straight into the hands of the head auror.”

 

“It’s not the end of the world. It’s just life as a Malfoy.”

 

“Oh don’t give me that martyr shit, Malfoy. Potter told me Mclaggen would have very well offed you if he hadn’t seen the man chase after you and followed him. Frankly, I have no idea how he saw you both leaving, it was a bit of a mad house in the hall last night.”

 

“I’ve seen a lot of Potter these last few days.”

 

“Potter’s been wanting to make things right with you for years, Malfoy, if I tell you the truth. I grab a pint with him every couple of weeks, and he brings you up a lot. Could never figure out where to find you. You’ve sort of vanished off the map since the war.”

 

“I live in muggle London, now. I spend the majority of my time there.”

 

“Muggle London? There’s a Malfoy living in muggle London? Now who would’ve guessed that?”

 

“Yeah, there’s probably a lot of things I do you wouldn’t guess of a Malfoy.”

 

Jordan winced, “Sorry, Malfoy, I didn’t mean it like that.”

 

Malfoy rubbed circled into his forehead and sighed, “No it’s fine. I shouldn’t expect people’s opinions of me to change drastically, even if they don’t want me dead anymore. I’m not doing myself any favors by hiding from the wizarding world.”

 

“Why do you stay out, then?” Jordan asked simply

 

“It’s easier. No one to shoot dirty glances at me. No Mclaggens. The only muggles who hate me are those that I run into on the tube or something.”

 

“Well if Potter wants to make things right, I’m sure he’s not the only one.”

 

Draco paused, “Jordan, tell me more about Potter. Despite his hovering presence, I haven’t learned a thing about the bastard that I didn’t already know.”

 

“Well, he plays for Puddlemere, has since the war. Just started practicing with England last.-”

 

“Goodness Jordan, something I couldn’t find out by reading a weekly rag.”

 

Jordan flushed, “Sorry. Well, he could’ve run the auror department in few years, but didn’t want to do the whole magical law thing. They gave him an offer straight off the bat. Didn’t need to redo his NEWTs or anything. Expedited training, too. Ron took them up on the offer, though. He’s doing quite well for himself over there.”

 

Draco nodded with curiosity. It made sense that Potter was burnt out on the whole saving the world thing. Goodness knows Draco wouldn’t want anything to do with a Ministry job. He tuned back into Jordan’s voice,

 

“lives in that wretched Black house he inherited from Sirius all by himself. The guy hasn’t done much with it. Still has screaming portraits and bewitched cabinets all over the house.”

 

“All alone?” Draco interrupted, “What about the weasel, uh, the Weasley girl?”

 

“Split up right after the war. Would have thought you’d seen that in all the papers.”

 

“I didn’t, uh, go out much right after the war.” Draco muttered

 

“Oh, sorry, Malfoy, didn’t mean it like that.”

 

“No worries, Jordan.”

 

Draco was paying little attention to the supposed slight. Potter wasn’t dating the redhead. Maybe he was available. Not that it changed things for Draco. He still couldn’t shag the bastard unless he wanted his whole universe to come crashing back down on him. And Potter wasn’t gay. But for some reason, it still made him feel better.

 

“You know,” Jordan said with a grin, “You’re not nearly as much of a bastard as I thought you would be.”

 

“Oh, thank you Jordan,” Malfoy sneered, “how endearing.”

 

“Now don’t make me take that back. I still think I’m one of the only Gryffindors keen on being your mate.”

 

“You want to be mates?” Draco asked tentatively

 

“Why not, Malfoy. Things are strange enough as it is, aren’t they. Why not shake it up a bit. You know I grab the occasional drink with that friend Pansy of yours. I figure if I can be friends with one Slytherin, why not another?”

 

Draco blanched, “You and Pansy are friends???”

 

“Why so surprised Malfoy? The witch is a riot, and I swear she never sleeps. I reconnected with her last year at some rich old hag’s charity ball. She was absolutely plastered. Kept me sane through the whole ordeal.”

 

Draco chuckled. It was so like Pansy to make mysterious Gryffindor friends and not bother to tell him. Malfoy rarely left his flat, so he would be none the wiser. Knowing himself, he would have just exploded in her face and given her some sort of ultimatum. As much as he fouled himself to admit it, Draco could actually feel himself growing less cold toward the idea of turning old rivalries into friendship. He actually quite liked Jordan, and he didn’t want to hex Potter any longer.

 

“You know, you’re not so much a bastard either, Jordan.”

 

“Hey, what did I ever do to get coined a bastard in the first place?”

 

“Well, you were in Gryffindor for one. Oh, and that bloody announcing gig of yours. ‘Slytherin has the quaffle. Now let's’ see which Weasley can get a bludger their chaser’s face first’” Malfoy mimicked in a high, obnoxious imitation of Jordan’s Irish accent.

 

Jordan chuckled without shame, “Very true, Malfoy. Mcgonagall sure did let that slide. Fred and George probably would have sent Peeves after her if she hadn’t though”

 

Draco returned the full hearted laugh, and the pair dropped back into silence. The sun had finally peeked out from the thicket of clouds, and Draco was happily basking up the small bit of warmth the rays of light provided. 

 

The Slytherin and the Gryffindor sat there in companionable silence, interjecting the occasional comment, over the next hour or so. The sun had reached its peak in the sky and was beginning to fly downward towards dusk when Lee Jordan brushed off his knees and stood.

 

“I should go keep working. I’m sure my boss has something more for me to do before the match tomorrow.” He paused and looked back at Draco before he walked off, “It’s been good to talk with you Malfoy. Maybe next time I meet up with Pansy you can join.”

 

Draco nodded and smiled, watching Jordan walk off with contentment on his face. An entire afternoon with a Gryffindor, Ministry-employed companion. His grandmother would be rolling over in her grave if she knew.

 

It made Draco pause and think. If someone who had been his rival, maybe even his enemy, for so many years could suddenly accept him into his life, what was holding Draco back. Maybe he needed to make more of an effort when he had gotten home from this job. Reach out to old classmates and have Pansy bring him around to more wizarding events.

 

* * *

 

Draco imagined supper would be starting soon, but he still wasn’t entirely keen on the idea of Potter’s company. The man was distracting and frustrating, and even moreso, Draco was distracting and frustrating to Potter. No need to throw the golden boy off kilter the night before the match.

 

Walking back into the castle from outdoors, Draco readily embraced the warm air of the stone building. He walked towards the dining hall, but skirted around the main entrance down a thin hallway he assumed led to the kitchens. The the end of the twisting hall stood a heavy wooden door, through which Draco could hear the banging of pots and pans and the high, squealing voices of house elves.

 

Draco knocked steadily on the door, allowing it to swing inward on its hinges. He peered in, watching the hectic scene play out before him uninterrupted. Dozens of house elves scurried about in an extreme example of organized chaos. Stove tops were filled with sizzling meats and vegetables. Kettles let out whistles as water came to a boil. Ovens were stuffed full of pies and casseroles. The smell was delicious, to say the least.

 

A house elf on the edge of the madness noticed Draco and scurried over quickly.

 

“Can I help you, sir?”

 

“Hello, yes you can. I wanted to go work up in my quarters. Could I just grab some food from you and take it up with me?”

 

“Why of course, sir. One moment only, sir!”

 

In what seemed like seconds, Draco was walking out of the steaming kitchen, arms laden with far more food than a single man could eat. Pies, sandwiches, fruit, cakes, and a flagon of pumpkin juice filled his arms and threatened to fall to the ground below.

 

Draco carefully made his way up the staircase, and he nearly collapsed by the time he had carried all of the food into his room. He laid the food out across the bedspread and curled up with his parchment and quill. There were only a few hours left before the piece had to be submitted to the Prophet for morning printing.

 

The night was still young, only six o'clock, and Draco did not intend on leaving until the piece was finished. Draco was much more focused than before, the mysteries of Harry Potter not weighing him down as much as they had previously. The words flowed more freely out of his quill, and Draco found himself completing the article in less than a few hours. He had snacked on the food the house elf had given him, and he was warm and comfortably full by the time he had finished.

 

Draco threw a small pinch of powder into the fire and quickly sent the roll of parchment off to the Prophet.

 

It was just past eight, but Draco felt as if it was much later. The stress of the previous few days had caught up with him, and the small ache in his side from the beating he had received did not make him eager to move. Resigning himself to an early night in, Draco picked up his battered book and flicked his wand to lower the light in his chambers to a soft glow. He pulled the quilt up around his chest and leaned back against the pillow.

 

Tomorrow was the final match, and Draco would need all of the energy he had in him to deal with it, Harry Potter and all.

 

Laying on his back for a few minutes, Draco felt restless. His mind refused to settle although his body weighed him down with exhaustion. He actually felt his anxiety picking up at the thought of the match tomorrow. Draco had allowed himself to become emotionally invested in tomorrow’s outcome, and this was the unfortunate outcome.

 

A few more minutes later, Draco was no closer to sleep. His eyes followed the play of shadows across the ceiling, wide open. His mind drifted to Harry Potter, awake somewhere in the large castle, probably wildly anxious about the match tomorrow. Draco would be wildly anxious if he was in Potter’s place, anyways. Potter never seemed to admit even the slightest hint of nerves or anxiety. Very focused and put together, the man was.

 

Needing to relieve some of his restlessness, Draco concentrated on the lamps in his room, allowing the light to warm slightly brighter. He wandlessly summoned his quill and a small scrap of parchment that were lying open on his trunk. Draco dipped the tip of the quill into the small pot on ink on his bedside table. Carefully scratched onto the parchment in a thin, slanted script, Draco wrote,

 

_ “Good luck tomorrow, Potter. I believe in you. -Draco.” _

 

When he had finished writing, Draco looked back down at the parchment. For goodness sakes, the short message sounded sappy, not encouraging. And why on earth had he signed it Draco and not Malfoy. Draco did not have a single living memory of Harry Potter addressing him by his first name.

 

Drawing his mind away from the nuances of the letter, DRaco grabbed his wand from next to the discarded ink pot and quill. He flicked the wand at the parchment, where upon the paper slowly folded in on itself until it resembled a small origami crane.

 

Satisfied with his handiwork, Draco tapped the small crane. It floated into the air as if a miniature creature flying of its own free will. 

 

“Deliver yourself to Harry Potter,” Draco murmured with a small tap of his wand on the paper creature’s head for extra motivation.

 

The small crane’s wings moved gracefully, and the creature floated out of the open window and in the direction of Harry James Potter’s quarters.

 


	6. Chapter 6

The soft tune of a piano filled Draco Malfoy’s bedroom at precisely seven the next morning. 

 

The sound emitted from Draco’s thin wand, placed delicately on his bedside table. Rolling over with a groan, Draco muttered a gruff “silenco” in direction of the instrument. Bright morning light streamed through the crack in his drapes, a sign that the day had begun.

 

Shaking his head to rid himself of the cloudy morning feeling, Draco sat up in bed and reached his arms up over his head in a deep stretch. His side twinged a bit with the deep ache of slowly fading bruises, but the pain was significantly better than the day prior. He lifted his nightshirt to inspect his side, Draco noted the foul green color some of the bruising had become. A sure sign that it was healing, at the very least.

 

Draco had plenty of time before he had to be down at the pitch for the eleven o’clock match, so he got up and lazily made his way into the lavatory, where he began to run a bath. 

 

Concentrating hard on the soap dish set next to the sink, Draco transformed the ceramic dish into a tea cup. With a soft “Augamenti” and the quick transformation of bath salts into tea leaves, Draco has a steaming cup of English Breakfast in his hands.

 

The art of transfiguring the nearest objects into the instruments necessary for a good cup of tea was one Draco had mastered before he had left Hogwarts. The kitchens were rather far from the Slytherin dorms room for his taste, and the Hogwarts house elves were not the biggest fan of the Malfoys after the arrival of Dobby at the castle.

 

Draco settled down into the steaming water of the bath. The heat was soothing, immediately releasing a spell of calm over his hunched shoulders and tense limbs. Draco did his best to dispel any thoughts of quidditch from his mind. He had only a few minutes to himself before the mayhem of match day would begin.

 

For the next half an hour, Draco lay in the large bath, his eyes closed and his mind blank. Every few minutes, Draco placed his wand to him temple, slowly pulling it away, thin strands of wispy memory floating in the air. The empty bottles slowly filled themselves, and Draco began to feel as light as air.

 

The memory of his first and only visit to his father in Azkaban, bottled away. The memories of his mother’s house arrest, softened and stored. Thoughts of his brief period of personal hell following the war. The time the Dark Lord spent residing in Malfoy Manor. All of it, a faint grasping memory in his mind’s eye rather than a screaming, vivid motion picture playing out in his mind.

 

The weight of a thousand world seemed to have lifted off of Draco’s shoulders. It was if he was Atlas, and he had finally been permitted to take the earth off of his back.

 

It was with renewed energy and a calmed mind that Draco exited his room to report of the World Cup Finals.

 

* * *

 

 

The match began at eleven sharp. Attendees had begun arriving at the pitch before five in the morning. They had been residing all over Switzerland. Some in the mountains, tents pitched precariously in fields and forests alike. The handful of wizarding towns and inns had been booked to capacity with English and Brazilian witches and wizards alike.

The castle was a bubble of relative calm compared to the pitch less than a mile away. 

Draco was prepared for worst this time. His fitted grey press robes were layered with water repellant spells, self cleaning charms, and even a warming charm in case of a change in weather. Draco had an umbrella shrunken down in his breast pocket and the large press badge pinned to his chest. Multiple rolls of parchment were rolled in his large pockets, and a quick quotes quill was ready in Draco’s hand.

Stepping out into the morning light after a quick breakfast in the bustling hall, no sign of Harry Potter or any quidditch players to be seen, Draco apparated to the stadium gates. There were more people queued to enter the stands than Draco had ever seen before in his life. 

It took Draco nearly thirty minutes to make his way to the English press box. It was situated in the middle of the stands, directly in the shadows of a large mountain vista. As per usual, it was directly below the large top box, which would host the English Minister of Magic along with other prestigious and important magical figures.

 

* * *

 

 

Over the next hour, the stadium filled with quidditch fans from across the globe. Draco could hear a multitude of languages being spoken, only a handful of which he recognized. The English press box was full to bursting, as was the top box above them. Draco had captured a quick glance of the Minister making his way up the stairs, as well as one of the Weird Sisters and the heads of multiple Ministry departments.

There was plenty of activity on the pitch below. Draco adjusted his omnioculars to watch the officials weigh the balls and test the atmosphere with detector charms.

Any minute the team mascots would perform, and then the match would be underway. Draco glanced at his wristwatch and shifted his weight in anticipation. A moment later he was satisfied to hear the loud, accented voice of Leon Zellweger, Swiss Minister to Magic booming over the crowd.

“Grüezi mitenand **.** Welcome, all. I am pleased to welcome you to the final of the Quidditch World Cup. In just a moment, the team mascots will perform for you all. I encourage you to stay calm and enjoy the show.”

With a flourish to the field, Zellweger sat back down and his booming voice dissipated. From the pitch, a rumbling sound could be heard, and a throng of small, strange creatures burst out into the stadium.

The Brazilian national mascot was the curupira. A small creature, they sported a shock of hair far more red than any Weasley and stood only a few fet off of the ground. Other than their bright hair, the only other feature that differentiated the curupira from a dwarf was their strange feet. Rather than point forwards, their feet pointed backwards relative to the rest of their body. It was a strange sight to see indeed.

Over the next few minutes, the swarm of creatures tumbled about on the pitch. The acrobatics that the curupira performed were astonishing. Their large backward feet allowed them to launch themselves into the air to perform what was similar to a muggle circus act. They pulled sparks of color from midair and played music with instruments they created from the heavy fog.

Draco watched awestruck at the strange display, until suddenly, the creatures disappeared as quickly as they arrived. The crowd clapped, seemingly a bit perturbed from the entire ordeal.

Within moments of the curupiras’ disappearance, sparks began to gather in the sky above the pitch. Draco watched in curiosity to see what mascot the English team was bringing to the field. 

Traditionally, the English mascot was the dragon. The emblem of the dangerous creature was embroidered in gold on every English kit. However, like Draco had just noted to himself, the creatures could be deadly. The last time the English team had brought Dragons to a match, an entire stand of onlookers had been hospitalized with burns.

Above the crowd, the sparks began to appear at an even quicker rate. Streaks of gold and red across the sky, weaving together in a floating canvas. Soon the bright shapes took the forms of large, sparkling dragons in the air. A loud, haunting voice began to sing, the sound echoing from all around. Draco recognized the voice of the Weird Sister that he had seen climbing the stadium stairs only minutes prior.

Over the next few minutes, the large dragons circled through the air in time with the music. They soared and twirled and rushed down toward the pitch at the speed of sound. Sparks flew off of their bodies and danced independently through the sky. 

Onlookers gasped, riveted at the sight of the magically knitted dragons. Their large formed reminded Draco slightly of the large fireworks that had taken the form of a dragon and chased Umbridge through the castle during his fifth year.

Draco reminded himself to ask Potter if George Weasley had anything to do with the performance. If he ever saw Potter again, Draco reminded himself. The final song drew to a close, and the dragons all rushed toward each other in the middle of the pitch, colliding and exploding into a sea of golden sparks.

The crowd applauded even more fiercely than they had for the Brazilian mascots.

 

* * *

 

 

The traditional mascot performance finished, Zellweger began to speak again, welcoming each team and their fans to Switzerland. The Brazilian team were welcomed to the field, where they stood in line wearing vibrant green kits.  Zellweger announced each player by name, and their faces flashed huge in the sky above the team’s goal posts. The crowd cheered for each player, and especially loud roar going up when the team captain, Edward Cantas stepped forward and waved.

Next, the English team walked slowly onto the opposite side of the pitch. The kits the players wore were vibrant red, fitted black pants on the bottom. A large golden dragon curled itself around on each player’s back. Draco spotted Potter right away, his quidditch goggles secured across his eyes.

One by one, each player was announced. Draco could hear the roar of the crowd rise up around him, the press box going wild for each player. Draco himself stayed silent, his omnioculars focused in on the form of Harry Potter.

The man was a vision in red. The long sleeves of the kit pulled tight against his chest and arms, muscles moving under the fabric as Potter stepped forward and waved to the crowd. The dark pants hugged his hips tightly and were tucked into the tall leather boots strapped up his calves. Potter’s broom was held securely in his left hand. The dark wooden handle was shiny and new, each bristle of the racing broom in its place.

The smile that crossed Potter’s lips almost caused Draco to drop his omnioculars. He took a rattling breath and quickly zoomed out until his was surveying the entire team again. Potter warm smile was for the entire stadium, but in that moment Draco felt as if it was directed straight at him.

Draco sat back down and unrolled his parchment. He tapped the quick quotes quill against his lap, allowing the instrument to start writing away under his distracted watch.

Below on the field, the head official released the snitch into the air and allowed the bludger to take off. She pointed at each player, and they soared off into the air to take their positions in the sky. Emily Wormwood hovered a foot off the ground, staring into the eyes of a Brazilian chaser Draco did not know the name of. With a blow of her whistle, the quaffle was thrown high into the air between them, and the 424th Quidditch World Cup Finals were underway.

 

* * *

 

 

Draco realized only minutes into the match that he was fucked.

 

The match was thrilling. Each player was incredibly skilled and moved like poetry through the air. They twisted and turned, both teams matched perfectly against one another. Complex plays were executed, and the score stood at 50-30, England in only a few minutes of play.

 

Draco himself saw almost none of this. The quill on his lap recorded each minuscule detail of the game for him. The man himself had a single target in mind. The omnioculars were adjusted to .75 speed, and Draco watched the lithe form of Harry Potter fly through his vision.

 

The man moved with incredibly grace and power simultaneously. He was in constant communication with Oliver Wood, who was busy manning the England goal posts. Potter zoomed across the field to shout maneuvers to Wormwood and the other chasers. As the man played captain, he also paid perfect attention. Potter’s eyes darted across the pitch and through the air with incredible speed. Potter surveyed the sky for the snitch, ignoring parts of the pitch he knew that it would not inhabit.

 

Potter’s experience tracking the small golden ball was evident. There was no hesitation in his smooth movements, and Potter paid the Brazilian seeker’s actions minimal attention, focused on his own.

 

Draco spent moments watching Potter’s muscles tense and strain with his quick movements. He adjusted the dials to zoom in on the man’s tone thighs clenching on the shaft of the broom, moving a slow motion. He zoomed in further on Potter’s face, watching the beads of sweat gather on the man’s forehead, slicking down his unruly hair and exposing his scar to the elements.

 

The heavy breaths coming out of Potter’s open mouth were accompanied by the expansion of his chest. Draco could see every breath the seeker took and watch every movement the man made a hundred yards away. As his omnioculars were slowed in comparison to real passage of time, Draco was out of sync with the real game. He heard the shouts of fans as team scored, unaware if it was England or Brazil claiming the points.

 

Draco was pulled from his unintentional reverie of Potter when he heard loud booing coming from all around. He yanked the omnioculars from his eyes to see an English player laying on the grass, holding his leg in pain. Seeing the medi-witch rushing out, Draco placed the lenses back to his eyes, twisting the lever to bring the game up to speed.

 

He watched in slow motion as Sean Killroy raced across the pitch, thirty feet above the ground. The quaffle was clenched tight to his chest. The man twisted and dived, doing an incredible job of avoiding the Brazilian defensive plays. 

 

Then, out of nowhere, A hulking player in green collided with Killroy with extreme force. The man, not ready for the blow, was thrown from his broom and plummeted through the air. Draco could see Potter’s quick acknowledgement of what was happening and the deep anger in his eyes. Potter threw his broom into a dive, racing towards his player who was falling towards the ground. Killroy was falling too quickly. Draco watched in horror as the man hit the ground and lay there, unmoving.

 

In a moment, Potter was tumbling off his broom and running to his player, fear in his eyes. He fell to his knees and leaned over the man, checking for a response. 

 

From the sidelines, Draco could make out the medical team racing out to the two English players. 

 

With a sigh of relief, Draco could see the smallest sign of movement from Killroy. Draco could also see the sigh of relief ghost out of Harry Potter’s lips. The man’s face hardened into fierce anger. An arm still draped over the fallen player, Potter turned to scream across the pitch where the Brazilian team had gathered.

 

Draco could feel his own anger mirrored in Potter’s eyes. The move had been dirty, illegal in Quidditch play. Collisions happened. Rough play ensued when opposing players vied for the quaffle or bludger. Draco himself had nearly been tossed off his broom countless times.

 

This however was reckless endangerment and incapacitation of a player. The collision had clearly been with the intent to harm another player. 

 

Draco himself had seen plays this dirty before. The Slytherin team had been known at Hogwarts for their aggressive strategy and willingness to place the competition in harm’s way. However, the standard set in professional play was much higher. Dirty play was considered amature and unworthy of gracing the professional circuit.

 

Draco lowered his eyes, the loud shouting of English fans still echoing around the pitch. 

 

In real time, Draco watched Harry Potter screaming in the face of the head official. On the pitch, no flags had been thrown. The offending player, a hulking beater, was still standing among his teammates, outside of the penalty box.

 

Killroy was being levitated off of the field, his face alight with pain and his leg frozen in air, unmoving.

 

Draco ignited with rage, realizing how truly he wanted England to win. The anger of a true fan washed over him, and the heat of rage made him itching to yell out obscenities at the Brazilian team, at the officials who had let such a dirty play slide. But Draco resisted. It would put the Prophet in a bad spot of it came to light that Draco had been cursing out the officials instead of reporting, unbiased, on the match.

 

So he remained silent. Draco surveyed the riled up stands, fists clenched to his sides. He watched the Brazilian and English fans scream at each other in rage, countless fist fights threatening to break out all over the stands. Each observation he made was jotted down by the furiously scribbling quill in his lap.

 

* * *

 

 

It took a few more minutes for the stadium to calm down and game play to resume. Draco had watched Potter scream himself hoarse, the fire of passion raging in his emerald eyes.

 

Killroy had made it off of the pitch, where he was being attended to behind the scenes. A thin, young witch had joined the group, a backup chaser forced to take up a starting role. She looked terrified but excited, her teammates patting her on the back and running through plays with her in anticipation of the match starting backup at any second.

 

Draco pulled his attention up to the scoreboard, where the numbers read 60-190. England was down by a huge margin. In his attention to Potter, Draco had missed the overarching game play. England had not been down by this much of a margin for the entire cup tournament. A sudden feeling of nervousness washed over Draco. Would England be able to catch up? From so far behind and with a disabled player, was it even possible. Yes, England was one of the best teams in the world, but so was Brazil.

 

The possibility of England losing hadn’t even crossed Draco’s imagination. In his mind’s eye, he had always pictured the win. The two weeks of victory tour across the United Kingdom. He hadn’t imagined writing an article on England’s heartbreaking loss and returning home at once to resume his normal position at the Prophet.

  
Draco’s anxiety skyrocketed as he fixed his eyes on Harry Potter’s form on the pitch

 

* * *

 

In the end, no penalty was given. Potter’s desperate pleading and raging had bought him nothing. The payers realigned on the field and game play resumed. However, Draco had never seen such determination in a team’s eyes. Every face was set in stone. Their brows were lowered, they flew in perfect, tight formation. You could see it written across their faces,

 

_ “We will win in spite of this.” _

 

Within a minute of the game resuming, England had scored a goal. The stadium went up in a roar, and a grin spread across Potter’s face. Draco’s heart almost skipped a beat. Two more goals followed by England, unmatched by Brazil. The Brazilian team was as offbeat as England was on rhythm. Their clumsy play afforded them no goals and allowed points to start building up against them.

 

As England was shouting out for a fourth goal, Draco saw the fleeting form of Potter racing across the pitch. The man had spotted the snitch. He was racing toward the the English goalposts, nothing holding him back.

 

For the second time in two matches, Potter was apparently racing towards the snitch uninterrupted. The only thing that seemed to be in his way were the unmoving and sturdy goal posts in his wake.

 

The crowd grew quieter and quieter as Potter neared the posts, his speed growingIt was if they all thought that a single word could distract Potter and ruin the game. Even with his enhanced vision, Draco could not see the snitch. He believed it was there, though, as did everyone else in the stands. Potter was too good to make that simple a mistake.

 

Suddenly, Potter was feet from the top of the middle post. He was reaching his arm out. He seemed to be paying little attention to the large metal structure right in front of him, approaching at full speed. Potter reared up on his broom, both hands in the air, supporting himself with his strong legs.

 

In the next instant, the world seemed to stop. Potter had physically launched himself out into the air and off of his broomstick. He hung there in the air for a moment before swinging his body wildly in the air to grasp ahold of the large hoop with one arm. Potter’s broom stopped, floating in midair meters past his grip. From one single hand, Potter hung suspended forty feet above the ground. His other hand was closed in a fist, and as Draco zoomed in with his omnioculars, he could see one thin wing of the snitch rustling in Potter’s grip.

 

Once again, Potter had the snitch.

 

The crowd seemed to realize that the game was over, but they all sat in suspense, watching Potter hang above the ground. In what seemed like slow motion, Potter tossed the snitch in the direction of Oliver Wood, who caught it deftly in one hand. Both hands now free, Potter swung his second arm up to grab the hoop. He hoisted himself upward to sit on the bottom edge of the hoop, his legs dangling high above the ground.

 

A sigh of relief passed over the crowd, replaced all at once with a cheer so deafening Draco thought he would never hear again. The scoreboard had changed to read 250-190. England had won the World Cup, and Potter had made all of the difference.

 

Draco paid no attention to the screaming fans. The announcer was speaking loudly, but Draco could not hear a single word he was saying. Draco ignored the hands clapping him on the back and the wild celebration coming from within the press booth. He ignored the fireworks exploding red in the sky, the confetti raining down into Draco’s hair going unattended.

 

Draco’s attention had a single focus, and it was Harry Potter. The man was more beautiful than he had ever been before. Sitting on the goalpost, waiting for his teammate to fetch his broom, he looked like the happiest man on the face of the planet.

 

Zoomed in as far as the omnioculars would allow, Draco could see tears of joy welling up in the corners of Potter’s eyes. The grin on his face was so large it could have split him in two. The man was practically buzzing with excitement. He looked completely overwhelmed, ready to burst from the emotion.

 

As Wood helped Potter to jump from the goalpost back onto his broom, Draco tuned back in slightly to listen to the announcer.

 

“-and for the first time in almost two hundred years, England will be taking home the Quidditch World Cup trophy. This is truly a historic day in the world of international quidditch. England has never once come back and won from such a large distance in a cup game.

 

We can all easily agree that without the leadership and skill of seeker Harry Potter, this victory may not have been possible.

 

It has been an exciting few years watching the English war hero craft himself into the player he is today. The man has shown unwavering dedication to the sport and love for the craft. I can say without doubt that Potter will be an important figure in the world of quidditch for decades to come.”

 

* * *

 

 

After the commotion had settled, the Minister of Magic made his way down to the pitch to present the World Cup trophy to the English team. 

 

The lined up silently, one after another, in the center of the pitch. Their heads bowed as the crowd chanted the ENglish team’s historic fight song in loud waves of emotion.

 

The minister placed his wand at the nape of his neck, projecting his voice for every person to hear,

 

“I would like to thank you all for being here on this historic day. To the Swiss ministry and fans, thank you for hosting us in your beautiful country. We know firsthand how much work goes into hosting a World Cup match.

 

To the Brazilian officials, fans, and players, I thank you. Your hard work alongside the Swiss ministry as well as our own Department of Magical Games and Sports has made this match possible. Your unwavering support for your team has brought you halfway across the world today, and that is commendable. Your players fought a long and hard fight to get here, you will all be remembered as one of the best Quidditch teams of our generation”

 

The Minister paused for a round of applause,

 

“And now, to my Englishmen and women. I cannot put into words how much this victory means for each and every one of us today. Ministry officials, you have worked so hard over the lastfew years for your country, this weekend one of many times you have put in uncounted hours for a largr cause. Fans, I know many of you traveled here today without the company of loved ones who would have been thrilled to be here. After the difficult few years we have been through since the war, let us take this time of celebration to remember those we have lost as well as the victory we have claimed today.

 

Last but certainly not least, our players. Thank you each and every one of you for bringing such a morale boost to a nation that so desperatley requires it. You have worked harder than you ever have before, especially after the personal tradegies so many of you suffered during the war. You hard efforts have truly paid off, and you have played a wonderful, exciting game of quidditch. For that we thank you from the bottom of our cold British hearts.

 

Will you now step forward as I present you with this cup, a small symbolof the victory you have clenched today.”

 

Finishing his speech, the Minister held a large silver trophy above his head. The English team walked forward, Potter leading the pack. The Minister smiled as he and Potter stood face to face. Instead of the customary handshake, the Minister pulled Potter into a tight embrace, a large smile washing over his usually unfazed face.

 

Seeing this, the players erupted in cheers. Once the the trophy was firming held in Potter’s arms, Emily Wormwood and Oliver Lambic grabbed potter by the legs and hoisted them onto their shoulders.

 

Potter grinned and held the trophy up to the sky, where the sunlight glinted off of it brightly.

 

For the first time since Potter had captured the snitch, Draco joined in the cheering. A grin broke out across his face, and he raised both hands into the air, joining the chanting of the crowd around him.

 


	7. Chapter 7

It was nearly thirty minutes later when Draco was ushered into a large tent along with the other members of the press. The reporters would be gathering along with the English team for a preliminary press event prior to the launch of the victory tour.

 

The tent opened up to an expansive space when Draco stepped inside. A high vaulted ceiling of dark red material hung overhead in a festive shade. People, none of them players, were milling about the space waiting for the event to begin. A long table along one tent wall held h'orderves and drinks. Draco broke from the press and meandered over, picking up a glass of champagne and twirling it delicately between his thin fingers.

 

Draco surveyed the crowd and looked for any familiar faces. The English ministry officials who had been working the events were still present, and as usual, the grey press robes were spattered around the even en masse. Draco also noted a few familiar Hogwarts faces.

 

Two Weasleys stood at the front of the tent near the low stage. The Weasley girl wasn’t there, but from the distance, Draco could not determine which Weasley men the two were. Draco assumed one would be Ron, as Potter’s best mate would probably turn up to celebrate the victory. Draco also spotted Penelope Clearwater, girlfriend to Oliver Wood, slink by with a small group of giggling friends. Older witches and wizards, probably parents of the players, milled about with pride and happiness plastered across their faces.

 

As he was observing the goings on, the shaggy head of Hermione Granger appeared in Draco’s vision.

 

“Hello Draco,” Hermione greeted him neutrally.

 

“Hello, Granger,” he replied cautiously. If Draco wanted anything to do with Potter in the future, he must play nice with the man’s closest friends.

 

“Harry was telling me the other day that you were covering the Cup. I’ll tell you I was surprised. I always had imagined you going into something like potions or curse breaking.”

 

Draco nodded, considering his response. He hadn’t considered the possibility that Granger would start a conversation with him.

 

“Potter’s talking about me, now, is he?” Draco said rather snyly

 

“Yes, actually. He mentioned he’s seen you around more in the last week than in the last few years combined.”

 

“That is true.” Draco agreed cooly.

 

“I will say your writing is much better than the other man they have writing the quidditch column,” Hermione said, seeming to force the words out from the back of her throat.

 

“Oh, thank you,” Draco said surprised, “ I never would have thought you would read anything about quidditch.”

 

Granger made a face like she had smelled something unsavory, “Well, frankly I really wouldn’t. I find sport quite unnecessary. But it is Harry after all.”

 

Draco nodded. It was Harry after all. Those words rung just as true for him. They were the words keeping him sane and driving him mad at the same time.

 

“I’m surprised you’d want to talk to me, Granger. I was never exactly friendly to you.” Draco interjected into the silence that had fallen.

 

Granger let a small look of disgust cloud her vision before she wiped it away, “Well, Harry says you’re much better than you were during the trials. If he can try, then so can I.”

 

The response was calculated, but Draco believed her. He was not overly keen on being friends with Hermione Granger. The witch was naggy and a bit too academic for his tastes. She was rather nice overall, but she did not hold a flame to Pansy. Yet, if Draco was trying to re-enter the wizarding community as Lee had suggested, steps like these must be made.

 

The silence fell again between them, but it was quickly broken by a few loud “whoops” as the team started to enter, filing onto the elevated platform at the front of the tent.

 

“I’m going to,” Granger gestured broadly over towards the Weasleys standing at the front, “It was, um, good to talk, Draco.”

 

Draco nodded and walked toward the selection of press tables to one side of the tent. He sat down amongst the other reporters, watching the team walk out in their practice kits. They sat at a long table overlooking the tent. The cup was sitting on the end of the table, glinting out over the crowd, a tangible sign of the recent victory.

 

Draco glanced upward, eyes skimming over each player. His gaze came to rest on Potter. The man was wearing a pair of tapered athletic trousers, a dark red that sat tight against his legs. A fitted red t-shirt stretched against his broad chest, a large script reading “English National Quidditch Team”. Draco’s eye straile up the man’s chest.

 

When Draco’s eyes reached Potter’s face, he looked up straight into the waiting gaze of Harry Potter. The man’s emerald eyes were perched behind his glasses, vibrant and expressive as ever. Draco immediately started to drown in them, unable to tear his gaze away. Potter looked back at him, and intense emotion playing across his face.

 

Draco gulped, waves of intense feeling washing over him. He could not be expected to deal with Potter right now. The bastard looked as good as Draco had ever seen him. Freshly showered and clothed in that quidditch kit. Excitement and energy practically radiating off of him.

 

And now, Potter was looking at him like that. Not like an enemy exactly, but not like a friend either. It was this intense stare of plain curiosity and interest. Draco didn’t know how to interpret it. As his heartbeat pounded in his chest and a flush filled his cheeks, Draco knew that he was giving away his emotions to Potter by the second. He wrenched his gaze away and down to his empty parchment.

 

* * *

 

In the first few minutes of the press conference, Draco did everything in his power to keep his gaze from Potter’s side of the tent. He listened intently to the questions that the other reporters threw across the room.

 

“Coach Weatherford, what would you consider the most important decisions made going into this tournament season?”

 

“Team, what were the biggest challenges you faced while preparing for this final match against Brazil?”

 

“Did any of you expect the dirty, aggressive playing strategy that Brazil brought to the pitch today?”

 

“Wormwood, how did you feel that England’s offense matched up with that of the Brazilian team? In future World Cups, what do you think that the team should work on improving?”

 

Impulsively, Draco shot his hand into the air, calling out a question in a deep drawl,

 

“Potter, did you expect the dirty, aggressive playing on the pitch today?””

 

He put as much implication and intensity as he could into each word, raising his eyes to meet Potter’s as he spoke. Draco could see Potter swallow and take a deep breath.

 

“Uhh, well this was my first season as team captain and my first World Cup appearance. I think that while, maybe it wasn’t difficult, team unity was the thing I was most concerned about. Teams that mesh well together, uh, tend to do the best on the pitch. It’s as important as skill, in my opinion.”

 

Potter had stumbled over the words as Draco maintained eye contact with him, quirking an eyebrow in judgement as the seeker spoke into his microphone. Amused at the effect Draco’s question had had on the man’s usually calm demeanor, Draco refocused himself to his notes, giving himself a mental pat on the back.

 

The questioning went on for another hour. Reporters inquired about every minute of gameplay, strategy, and training. No stone went unturned, reporters even asking unsavory questions about tensions between teammates and possible roster cuts for coming years.

 

Draco captured all of the session with his quick quotes quill, giving him plenty of fodder for the next few day’s blurbs and articles in the Prophet. He would send off a batch of unedited content to the Prophet that night to be dissected and used for an article the coming morning. It would be front page content, not a blurb to be written by Draco.

  
As the last few questions were answered over the microphone, Draco began to pack up his materials. Family and friends remained to mill about, the first real time for them to congratulate their loved ones on the victory. The press members were heading out, most probably ready to jump start work on pieces for the morning papers.

 

* * *

 

 

Draco walked out of the large tent, the fresh air calming his flushed skin. What Draco would do to go back to his room and get himself off to the thoughts of Potter. The seeker in his kit, stretching against his muscular form as he twisted against Draco. His intense stare, eyes boring deep into Draco. The thoughts stirred Draco, causing him to shift on his feet.

 

But no, Draco had work to do.

 

His bed would be waiting for him later that evening. It was not yet four o’clock. The sun was high in the sky and a cool warmth of the Swiss summer washed over his skin.

 

Draco walked around to the side of the tent and concentrated on the lawn in front on the castle. The tight embrace of apparition wrapped itself around Draco, and he was forced into brief nonexistence before landing unsteadily on the castle grounds. Press and officials were milling about. The air was light with congratulations and hard pats on the back. People were grinning and already sporting large hats and carrying silk banners that read “424th World Cup Champions” in the English colours.

 

It was all Draco could do to not escape to his room for the next few hours. He lay on the deep green grass, scratching into his parchment with the pointed end of the quill.

 

His mind wandered, images of Potter’s sweat drenched forehead and callused hands playing across his mind’s eye. A deep coil of heat burned low in Draco’s stomach.

 

* * *

 

Draco had always been attracted to men. It had been a point of contention in the Malfoy household for as long as he could remember.

 

He had done little to hide his desire for other men, his classmates and his father’s friends alike. Draco showed no interest in the parade of young women his father brought through the manor. Lucius had hoped that one of the them would catch Draco’s eye, distract him enough from his vile ways and fulfill the never ending quest for Malfoy heirs.

 

Mother had not been too bothered when she had found out. Coming home for break during his fifth year, Draco had been greeted by the sign of his solemn parents sitting in the parlor tensely. An owl had been sent home. A distress call from the mother of a seventh year Slytherin boy.

 

The one Draco had rutted up against on the castle grounds, splayed frenzied hands across in the room of requirement. The older student had taken Draco from behind in the Slytherin common room in the middle of the night, opening Draco’s mind to the possibilities of his enlightened sexuality.

 

Draco had no strong attachment for the boy. He had come and gone in his life. But he had allowed Draco to explore his body, to come into his own sexual awakening. It had flipped a switch in Draco, one that once turned could never be turned back. It was at that point in the fall that Draco dropped any facade of interest in his female peers. He paid no attention to his parade of intended brides. Pansy was swept aside, her bouts of flirting met with snide remarks and allusions to Draco’s preference for the male gender. It was the angry letter from Pansy home that had started the unraveling of the whole thing. Owls back and forth between Slytherin parents, their noses high in the air at the idea of homosexuality in a pure blood family.

 

When Draco had stepped out of the fireplace and into the foray, the cold stares had caused him to stop in place. The last time he had seen such peculiarly stone-faced expressions, he had nearly blown up the manor greenhouse in an attempt at amateur potion brewing.

 

As Draco walked resolutely toward his parents, each step echoing on the stone floor, he straightened his back and held his chin high, knowing exactly what was coming. As Draco came to a stop right in front of his parents, Lucius’ face changed from one of calm disapproval into one of fiery rage.

 

His thin hand struck out in a swift motion, clapping hard against the side of Draco’s head and sending the boy careening down to the ground.

 

Narcissa had shouted in horror but stood stock still, as afraid of Lucius as she was horrified by his actions. Draco had laid there on the cool ground for a few moments, collecting his thoughts before he rose to his feet.

 

Draco stayed silent, looking back into the cool hatred pooling in his father’s eyes.

 

“You have brought such disrespect to the family.” Lucius snarled, spitting in Draco’s face, “Do you know the letters I’ve been getting from my colleagues at the Ministry, from my family acquaintances?”

 

Draco knew that when Lucius spoke of family acquaintances, he was really referring to the close circle of death eaters that were so often huddled in dark corners around the manor.

 

Draco stayed silent.

 

“Answer for yourself, Draco. Answer for yourself or there will be consequences.”

 

Draco had stayed silent. Lucius’ hand whipped out to strike his son yet again. Draco took the brunt of the hit and the fury of the words. Nothing he could say would calm his father.

 

In all honesty, Draco prefered that the truth was out there. He was terrified of his father. Terrified that this beating would become the expected and not the novel in his time at the manor. But the charade he had put on for the last few years was exhausting. He hated the pure blood brats pulled one by one through the manor. He hated the feeling of playing a part in his own home.

 

Draco could feel the fear of losing his inheritance and the family name creeping up around him. Over his next few years at Hogwarts, Draco waned in his strength. He considered many times going back to his father and apologizing, promising to marry the perfect pureblood witch and providing Lucius with an abundance of white haired heirs to the Malfoy name.

 

But then, Draco would find himself face to face with an opportunity. After the Drumstrang boy fourth year and the Slytherin his fifth, there had been a Ravenclaw. A muscular boy inches taller than Draco that could throw him like a sack of flour. A quidditch player and a powerful wizard. He had lasted months. It was never serious, but he had pulled Draco in like a drug, his hard body and smooth skin a drug like Draco had never experienced before.

 

There was no going back, and when Draco felt keen on caving to his father’s will, he thought back to the different boys. To the moments of heat and of his hands scratching down broad, muscled backs. The feeling of skin on skin and of stubble scratching across his smooth face and leaving red patches on his neck.

 

And besides the vivid memories, his mother had been his secret keeper. Narcissa was his saviour where Lucius was his abuser. She rubbed circles into his back as they sat in silence on his four poster bed. Her soft healing charms cleared the blood from his skin and faded the bruises inflicted by Lucius’ rage. She whisper in confidence that Draco should be who he was, and that she would make sure that he could have his life away from the manor. She would support him, as difficult as it was for her to come to terms with in the beginning. There were always hiccups in the road, and she was his mother after all.

 

“I love you, Draco. Don’t think that something as silly as this could get in the way of that.”

 

* * *

 

Once the horror of the war had ended, Draco struck out on his own. He had been imprisoned in his own family home for months on end. Lucius had forgotten his anger at Draco for his sexual deviance, but the beats came nonetheless.

 

Draco would from now on be a disappointment in his father’s eyes for one reason or another.

 

When the trials had finally ended and Draco walked free, a sense of freedom had lifted him up. Lucius would be in Azkaban, his mother confined only to house arrest for a few months. He was no longer putty in the hands of his controllers. His acceptance letter to work for the Prophet was secure in his pocket and his bags were packed.

 

Draco could have stayed with mother, but he could not stand the manor. He only returned because his mother could not go. She was frail after the war. Malnourished and frightened easily. Now out from under the watchful eye of her husband, she managed to flourish brightly after some time. Her personality regained its bright and sharp edges, having dulled from years of fretting and tiptoeing around the manor.

 

Draco obtained his muggle flat. He went out with Pansy once she had decided that he would be her project, a friend rather than an intended. She tried to set him up with wizarding men, but Draco could not feign interest. He had little interest in juggling the complications that the post-war world required.

 

Instead, Draco prowled the muggle bars and clubs in search of hungry eyed men. He took them back to his small flat or disappeared with them back to theirs. He let them overpower him, hold him down into the bed, thrusting hard enough to leave him walking unsteadily the next morning. Sometimes he rode atop them on days where he felt powerful, reclaiming his identity and intent on controlling his surroundings.

 

The faces of the men rarely made a resurgence. Every once in awhile a man proved himself charming enough or a good enough of a lay to require a return visit. But there was no dating. Draco was too mentally scarred for that.

 

The last few years of torture and abused, inflicted on him and him afflicting it on others had worn him down. At this point in his life Draco could maintain few relationships, let alone a healthy romantic one. So Draco fucked. He explored the bodies of strangers and created intimacy where it was nearly impossible to find it. But it was an exhausting process. Even with his strengthening mother and his fiery friend, Draco remained isolated in his in between world between muggles and magic. There wasn’t a soul to come home to in the evening after he had abandoned wizarding London for the day.

 

* * *

 

 

All of this Draco pondered as he lay in the grass, enjoying the soft warmth of evening light.

 

The contemplation of the last few years swirled through Draco’s head, threatening to burst out in the trails of silver memories. Draco was unsure what to make of it all. What did he want in this newfound thirst for Harry Potter?

 

Draco had worked so hard to never become hung up on a person. He let his sexuality to flow freely but never let it pool in one place for a period of time. Draco couldn’t seduce the seemingly straight Harry Potter. The man was a celebrity, his childhood enemy, and a Gryffindor to boot.

 

It wasn’t a possibility, but it was all that Draco could think of.

 

Groaning and clenching his hands to his temples, Draco threw his head back and sighed heavily. If only there were some tall dark stranger he could prostrate at the feet at to get his mind off of Harry sodding Potter. The sun began to shrink behind the horizon, and the warmth of the night began to wane. As a rush of cool air washed over Draco, forcing a shiver down his spine, he rolled to his feet to make his way into the castle.

 

Noise was emanating from the hall. Draco could see the dark red banners of the English quidditch team hung from the rafters, reminiscent of the house cup flags that so often had displayed the Gryffindor colours.

  
The long tables of the dining hall had been laid with platters and platters of food. Cakes, pies, dumplings, vegetables, fried food Draco did not recognize. People were shouting and running about, still slapping each other on the back and exchanging hugs in congratulation. It was an unofficial party and an enthusiastic celebration of the victory that England had waited for long for.

 

* * *

 

 

Draco ignored the wide open doors and continued down the dimly lit hall toward the staircase. He lifted his press robes from around his ankles and slowly marched his way up the staircase.

 

The halls were empty and dark, and unexcited about the idea of spending the rest of the night in his quarters, Draco began to meander. From the grounds outside, Draco had observed multiple turrets and towers atop the large castle. Imagining the expanse of the dark, starlit sky, Draco wandered about in the hopes of finding a staircase leading upward.

 

Draco climbed the main staircase to the sixth floor and seemingly the top floor of the main castle structure. In his ascent, Draco had not encountered a single person. He had not heard a squeak or a foot step. He assumed he was the only Englishman or women in Switzerland who was not in the hall celebrating at this moment.

 

Draco had made his way to a long dark hallway. The large flagstone steps echoed slightly as Draco’s leather oxfords tapped in his stride. Large paintings hung upon the walls, magical Swiss heroes, leaders, and academics alike. Knights sat atop their horses, surveying Draco as he walked pass. A group of forest nymphs cooled themselves in a stream in a large painting that spanned meters in every direction.

 

The floor felt like a large museum gallery, unattended and deserted at the top of the castle.

 

Draco eventually saw a heavy door propped open as he neared the end of the hall. Peering into the entry, Draco saw a flight of rough hewn stairs leading upward and felt the cool breeze of fresh air wafting in.

 

Without hesitation, Draco slowly and quietly ascending the stairs toward of the tower, calming at the thought of the open air and solitude to which he was escaping. The stairs wound in a tight spiral and the climb was slow. Eventually Draco reached a large open rooftop, expanding in a large circle balcony around the tower.

 

From Draco’s side he looked westward toward the rest of the castle and the side of the hill the structure was affixed to. Past the turret, Draco could see the faint outline of the blue mountains that had been the backdrop to his last few days.

  
With a swish of his robes, Draco rounded the bend of the balcony.

 

* * *

 

 

The moment Draco fully rounded the bend of the balcony, he was struck by the beauty of the view in front of him. An expansive sapphire blue sky dotted with stars, the dark heaping forms of the mountain a framework to the scene. But as Draco began to survey the view in front of him, a flash of movement caught his eye. Draco jerked his head back down out of his reverie, and he noticed the dark form of a figure staring out over the view in front of him. Startled at the sight of another person, Draco skidded to a halt. His shoes struck against the stone, echoing out around him loudly.

 

As the loud thunk rang out to interrupt the peaceful silence, the figure swung around in a fluid motion. Not wanting to invade the peace of another, Draco made to leave. But as soon as Draco had taken his first step, the figure in front of him moved out of the shadows, revealing the contentious face of Harry Potter.

 

The man stood, back to the sky and a few feet from the edge of the railing. He looked a mixture of shocked and angry. As Draco's precense sunk in, the fright washed itself clean off of Potter's face, leaving only hatred in his eyes. Potter thrust his hand into his trouser pocket to pull out his dark wand, and he was moving, closing in on Draco who was standing unmoving in front of him.

 

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?” the words tumbled out of Potter’s mouth in haste and buried frustration. Rage burned in the man's eyes, his eyebrows furling downward and his shoulders curling upward in pent up energy. Potter stalked toward Draco, closing the few feet between them and forcing Draco to back up into the stone wall. Potter looked deep into Draco's eyes and shoved the tip of is wand to the base of Draco's neck.

 

Malfoy gulped, not ready to face the man that he had spent the day fantasizing over. Especially not now that the man had murder written across his face. He took a deep breath and opened his mouth,

 

“I’m sorry, Potter, I didn’t mean to-”

 

Potter was not in the mood to listen to Draco. He cut him off, pushing the wand tip into him with more aggression, causing Draco to wince backward in pain.“You didn’t mean to, did you? That’s rich. Can’t any of you reporters leave give me some peace? I can’t believe the gall of the Ministry to house us all together like mutts in a kennel. And you Malfoy. It's always you, isn't it. I answered your questions and I played the damn game. All I want is some fucking solitude.” Every rise Potter threw into his words he  emphasized with a jab of the wand.

 

“Listen Potter, I'm not here to see you,” Draco said cooly

 

“Than why are you here Malfoy?” Potter demanded, fingering the wand he still held in his grasp. The two men were separated by mere centimeters, Draco’s back pressed against the cool stone and Potter leering over him in aggression, "I've tried the last couple of weeks. You seem to hate me as much as ever, and aren't too keen on letting bygones be bygones. So if you hate me so much, why are you here?"

 

“I came to clear my head, Potter. See the sights and what not. I didn’t think you of all people would be up here ogling the stars.”

 

“Oh, how daft do you think I am” Potter spat. Nevertheless, he relaxed slightly and dropped his wand fully to his side. He did not step away from Draco however, and his gaze still met with Draco’s.

 

Draco felt a bit emboldened by the sudden wash of silence over the party of two. He dropped his voice an octave and, ignoring the snide tone in Potter's voice, let out a low whisper,

 

“And I don't hate you Potter. You're a bastard yes, but that's because your a Gryffindor. Nothing I can do about that one." he paused. "And you did play a marvelous game today,” Draco hummed, letting the words float on the air to the waiting man.

 

Potter gulped, his eyebrows lowering in suspicion slightly but gaze not breaking with Draco. He did not speak.

 

“It was simply riveting to watch from the press box,” Draco continued, “Few people can handle a broom like that, Potter. My eyes were stuck on you the entire match. I slow motion even.”

 

At that last sentence, Draco saw Potter tense up, he opened his mouth to speak, but paused in contemplation. Eventually he lowered his hand and shoved the wand back into his pocket. He finally spoke.

 

"Look Malfoy, I don't know what to think of you. This entire tourney has been punctuated by you looming over me at all fucking times," Potter looked forward into Draco's eyes, trying to communicate an unclear message in the silence.  

 

"Me looming over you?" Draco scoffed at Potter's words, "That's a riot, Potter. You're the one who's been joining me for our intimate little quidditch debates and meal time chats. That's on you mate. I'd say you were the one doing the looming, as you call it." Draco paused and spoke again softly, reaching out his hand. "What exactly Do you want me to do, Potter?"

 

"Hex you?" He ran a single fingertip along Potter’s shoulder.

 

"Fight you?" the finger continued over the smooth curve of Potter's shoulder, clad in a thin cotton shirt.

 

"Write about you?" Draco's voice had lowered to a whisper, and the finger tip ran down his arm.

 

"Something else?" He dropped the hand back down to his side.

 

Potter had tensed up. There was a hunger in his eyes that shone clear through to Draco, but he stood still. Tension ate up the short space between them, creating an electrically charged field in the air. It was as if a single loud breath could send the whole moment careening down around them.

 

In the next instant, a final switch flipped in Draco’s head. He would not be seeing Potter after this next week. He had one opportunity for this, maybe ever. His intuition told him to lunge forward, to take Potter's rough cheeks in his hands. So that was what he did. Draco moved to close the small gap between himself and Potter. But Potter had other ideas.

 

Just as Draco's lips were about to brush those of the dark haired man, Potter jerked back in shock. He stood there, heavy breathing still felt against Draco's cheeks. His eyes conveyed shock and confusion, but above all, indecision. He was like a statue, frozen there with a look of indecisiveness plastered across his face almost comically.

 

In the seconds of silence that hung suspended between the two men, Draco itched to close the gap. If Potter hadn't looked so torn up on the inside, he was certain that's what he would have done. But no. Draco had never seen that much thinking go into an action of Potter's before. And though every ounce of being was screaming for him to kiss Potter, to push him up against the stone wall, to slowly undress him piece by piece, Draco stayed still. He was as frozen in time as Potter was.

 

But then, the silence came crashing down upon the two figures, standing there in quiet tension among the stars. Potter finally broke contact with Draco's light eyes, confusion swimming in his vision.

 

"I-" Potter stammered and paused. He took a deep breath and turned, looking back over his shoulder and made one final eye contact with Draco, "I'm sorry Malfoy. I just, I can't."

 

And suddenly whatever had transpired between them was over. Draco's heart was still pounding a loud beat in his head, and his fingers tingled from where they had traced over Potter's arm. Mentally however, Draco was as confused as Potter had looked. Of all things, Draco would have put galleons down that this situation would have transpired any other way.

 

He could picture an enraged Potter shoving him away in fury. Arms clenched in fists and ready to hex Draco with whatever came to mind. "I'm straight you daft bastard. What gives you the right? How stupid are you? Fuck back off to muggle London where you belong."

 

He could picture it going the opposite way. Their lips would have crashed together in harmony. Their teeth would have hit against each other in frantic motion, and the heat of their bodies moving would have kept them warm on the cool summer night. Draco could imagine the strong embrace of the seeker, even imagine the two of them slowly undressing in the open air and feeling Potter's sun roughened skin under his fingers.

 

This confusion and angst and pure unsurity that had plastered Potter's face was unexpected. Boy wonder had gone once again and thrown Draco's mind into a tailspin. 

 

Draco stood there, heart pumping out of his chest, aching with want and mind swimming with confusion. He threw his head back against the wall, groaning slightly at the feel of the stone collide with the back of his head. He waited there, letting the cool breeze of the night calm his flushed cheeks and his racing mind. He kept his eyes closed, ignoring the view he had came out to watch. Minutes, maybe an hour passed, and Draco did not move. Eventually, he cracked his eyes open to survey the empty space around him. The beautiful views laid out bare in front of them no longer held the calming appeal that he had originally sought them out for. 

 

Ignoring his racing mind and concentrating on the world around him, Draco could hear nothing. Certain that Potter was out of sight, he pushed himself off from the stone wall and ran. Draco ran, his heart pumping, down the spiral staircase, taking the steps two at a time. He sprinted down the long hall, the knight in the painting calling out to him as he shot past. Draco’s lungs heaved and his legs carried him as quickly as they could over the stone tiles, his heavy footsteps sounding out all around him.

 

In only a few short minutes, Draco had carried himself down the staircase to the second floor, where he bolted to his door and swung it open the moment the key was in the lock. Draco shoved the door close. His fists collided with the wooden door, pounding against the surface in frustration. 

 

He was so stupid. Do unwaveringly daft in the wake of what had just transpired. Any hope of friendship or even polite acceptance had been shattered the moment Draco had tried to close the gap between the men, to fucking kiss the Potter boy. Still, though, the thoughts of the man raced through Draco's mind. The heat radiating off of Potter's body. The darkness in the back of those bright eyes. The slight gasp Potter had let slip through his lips when Draco's fingertips landed on his chest. The look of something that crossed Potter's face when he saw Draco moving towards him. The look of Potter in that thin cotton shirt, towering over Draco a mass of strength.

 

Draco sank down, he head banging against the wooden door as he came to rest on the cool stone ground. Heat was rushing through Draco's system, pooling in his groin. The thought of Potter running into the darkness frustrated Draco to his core, but the thought of him wide eyed and breathy just moments before was overpowering. With a flourish Draco leaned forward and shoved the lightweight cloak off of his shoulders.

 

He leaned back against the cool door and slowly let him hands trail down his chest, reaching his waistband. 

  


End file.
